


In The Details

by Nonymos



Series: The Marvel Fractions [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Bruce Banner Needs a Hug, Bruce Feels, Clint Feels, Clint is secretly the nicest guy in the Marvel Universe, Fraction's Hawkeye, Hawkguy, Hulk Is Scary, Hulkeye - Freeform, Insecure Clint, M/M, Purple Shirt of Sex, Slow Build, although he hides it well, and he feels uncomfortable for it, omg Bruce stop saying sorry, they say God is in the details, they say the Devil is too, what's it gonna be this time ?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:06:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 79,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/pseuds/Nonymos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a hero with no superpowers kind of sucks. Clint Barton feels out of place in the Avenger Tower; Hawkeye feels out of place in his Brooklyn apartment. It's not hell though. He's got friends on both sides of his life, and he never gets bored. Still – there's this deep loneliness inside him that nothing can seem to cure.</p><p>	After the whole Loki business, both sides of Clint feel a little out of step, and he tries to avoid aliens and giant monsters and world crisis in a whole. Problem is, he's not the only one to exist on several scales.</p><p>	And who better than Bruce Banner to teach someone about dual nature.</p><p>
  <a href="https://book-ish-ly.blog/2017/02/20/in-the-details-by-nonymos-chapter-one/">NOW IN PODCAST FORMAT THANKS TO THE AMAZING BOOK-ISH-LY!</a>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a mix between the Avengers 2012 and the new Hawkeye comics by Fraction and Aja – fabulous stuff, go have a look; if you haven't you can still read the fic though, no problem. Just know that Clint lives in Brooklyn in a big building which he bought from his previous owners, the Tracksuits Vampires (because they wear tracksuits and they are Russian mobsters) when they tripled the rent and started evicting everyone.  
> By the way, their dog defected to Clint; once called Arrow, he now answers to Lucky. Or Pizza Dog.
> 
> Also, my beta [laurie_ky](http://archiveofourown.org/users/laurie_ky/pseuds/laurie_ky) is awesome and improved this work like you wouldn't believe.

 

 

 

 

Okay...

This looked bad.

 

Not that Clint didn't like being an Avenger. It was a lot of pressure, but almost everything in his life could match that description anyway. It's just that most of the time, he _wasn't_ one. They assembled for special occasions – major villains; threats on a world-wide scale; international press conferences (only that one time though, but it had been as memorable and stormy as your average alien invasion); the rest of time, they just went on with their lives. They were not living in Tony's bosom like the press and the fans tended to dream about. Sure, the Avengers Tower was a thing and their individual floors were very much a thing, but it was just in case of an emergency – see above for examples.

Most of the time, Clint lived in a small, dirty flat in Bedford-Stuyvesant, and here in the deep city, the Avengers were only bright splashes of color on the television. Nobody even recognized him – well, most of the time. He wasn't that famous anyway, compared to the others. The stolen footage that circulated the web usually starred the Hulk or Iron Man or Captain America. Clint might be an Avenger, but in the end, he was just a guy with no super-powers. And a bow. People here were too busy dealing with how to pay the rent, how to pay for cable, and how to pay for their small lives in a general way since someone had apparently decided that human beings could not exist for free.

Becoming philosophical. Clint hated it, but it tended to happen to him in the face of a crappy situation. See, he _liked_ it here. He didn't waste any time thinking about it out loud, but the fact was that he enjoyed his life on the top floor, his very normal neighbors, the nightly roof-top barbecues and his general anonymity. To the point of secretly paying everyone's rent once – and, okay, actually buying the whole building, _shut up –_ but that was a story he preferred not to recall. Everyone that lived in this building he could have met during his circus years among the cheering public. They were the kind of people to pay a small fee just to see their children's eyes gleam, since apparently _that_ couldn't be free either.

Losing himself in thought again. The point was, he did not want his neighborhood to be flattened or zapped or crushed anytime soon. Preferably never. He wanted the people here to get on with their lives, and that might be a foolish wish in Brooklyn – or any place in New York, for that matter – but all things considered, shit didn't hit the fan _that_ often.

Except when it did.

Clint realized he was still frozen on the threshold with his hand gripping the door handle. His unexpected visitor had patiently waited for his internal monologue to run dry.

“Um,” he mumbled. “I can come back later if now's not a good time. I would have called, but I don't have your number.”

“No,” Clint answered automatically. “It's good. Come on in, man.”

He took a step back and what looked like an unassuming hobo stepped inside, hunching even more on himself as he crossed the door. This was maybe the only other superhero people recognized less than Clint. But _he_ certainly was no normal human.

Clint thought again about how he dearly wished his neighborhood would still be standing by the end of the day. He really liked those roof-top grills. A nightly ritual they had in there. Most the building heading up to the roof for dinner and a bit of socializing. Even in November. Those moments made him feel average and sometimes kinda lame and _normal_ – if only for a short time.

The only time he felt really normal was among the Avengers and _that_ – that wasn't a good feeling then. Why couldn't anything ever be simple?

“Don't mean to disturb,” the hobo said. “It's very purple here. I like purple.”

Clint didn't ask how he had found his address. After all, they were colleagues.

Truth be told, he hadn't been called to the Initiative in over five months. He'd have rather had things stay that way, but when you were Hawkeye the Human, things were bound to go south any day. At least this time, his rent was payed, his leg wasn't broken, and he still had a few things to look forward to. So maybe he could make an effort and be polite with this man he wanted out of his apartment – out of his _city –_ more than anything, even though he knew how it unfair it was.

Bruce Banner gave a soft smile and Clint realized he must be reading him like an open book, maybe because he _was_ a fucking genius – or maybe because everywhere he went people always reacted the same way. _Please let him be gone with my house still standing._

“Um, sorry,” Clint said, a nasty feeling of shame tightening his throat. “I haven't slept much, I'm a bit – out of it. Coffee?”

“No thanks,” Bruce said quietly.

“Oh. Right. I guess you don't drink beer either.”

He didn't have anything else.

“Water?” the doctor said. “Water would be fine.”

“Right. Yes. Sure.”

Clint went into the small kitchen, relieved he could turn his back to Banner if only for a second, and filled a big glass with tap water. The doctor took it and drank with the obvious pleasure of people who haven't had running water nearby in a long time.

Now that was weird.

“So how's Tony?” Clint asked, just to test the waters.

Bruce looked at him over the rim of the glass. “Um,” he said, setting it delicately on the coffee table. “Judging by the news, he's fine.”

“I thought you were living with him.”

Stark had been so dead set on dragging Bruce Banner inside his expensive, high-tech, _breakable_ tower that everyone assumed they were sort of roommates now. After all, they _had_ driven into the sunset together after Manhattan. Every time the Avengers had assembled after that, Bruce had been there – for a few seconds before something greener and bigger took his place. That the scientist hadn't Hulked out in the Avengers Tower was a miracle. But hey, maybe he had – who knew how _his_ floor was built.

Except for the fact that apparently, he wasn't living in it.

“Oh,” Bruce said. “Um. No, I thought it would be better to give him and Miss Potts some space.”

Another way of saying that superheroes were freaking Pepper Potts out and that a radioactive monster living under her roof would have been the last straw. Clint felt a brief pang of pity for the guy, but then again _he_ wanted him out of his place too. He couldn't blame Potts; she had an awful lot on her plate with Iron Man alone.

“Where have you been then?” he asked, taking back the empty glass.

“Here and there,” Bruce mumbled. “It's a nice apartment you have.”

“Thanks.”

Banner plunged his hands in the deep pockets of his down jacket. “Look, uh – ” he worried his lip for a second and Clint briefly wondered what he would look like, peeled out of his baggy clothes and without his beaten-up, stubbly, weary look. He had seen him like that only once – when they had sent Loki back. He'd been wearing Stark clothes and a tentative smile on a clean-shaven face then. But now Bruce Banner was buried in a coat too large for him, and there were dark smudges under his eyes.

“Actually, I need your help,” Bruce finally said.

 _“My_ help?”

Clint's disbelief was so obvious a tiny smile ghosted on Banner's lips for a second. “I would have asked Natasha, but...”

There were worlds of reasons hiding underneath those words and neither Clint nor Bruce wanted to dwell on it.

“Yeah, okay,” Clint said. “What about Tony or Steve?”

“It's not on their scale,” Bruce murmured.

 _You're on their scale,_ Clint wanted to say. But it seemed that if not for the monster hiding at his core, Banner would have belonged entirely on the streets. He was used to living without a roof over his head and since nobody knew his face, he was as much a target for ordinary trouble as anyone else. The realization shook Clint up a bit – that Banner's rumpled clothes were not an undercover disguise.

Clint felt he couldn't hesitate for much longer without being outright rude.

“Look,” he said. “Why don't you just sit and... tell me about it. Hey, just – can it wait half an hour?”

“Um,” Bruce answered, looking a bit owlish. “I guess?”

“'Cause I haven't eaten yet. I hope you don't have anything against frozen lasagna.”

The sparkle that lit up in Bruce's eyes drove Clint to think that apparently the scientist hadn't been starving just for water. Clint couldn't see how thin he was beneath that down jacket, but his face did seem a bit more angular behind his thick glasses and under the baseball cap covering his curly hair.

Bruce was quick to hide any pangs of raw hunger though. “I like it unfrozen,” he smiled, “but have it your way.”

“Har har,” Clint said, because it was easier than asking, _when was the last time you had a proper meal?_ Wasn't his business anyway. “It'll be ready in ten minutes. Can you get us out paper plates or something ? In that cupboard over there.”

“Uh, sure. Thanks for – ”

“And you can ditch the cap and coat too. There's no paparazzi hiding under the sink. And I know the windows aren't double glazed, but it's not that cold.”

Bruce's eyes briefly took in Clint's tank top and dark jeans, and he had that faint smile again. He took off the baseball cap, but kept the jacket on and Clint didn't insist.

 

*

 

Ten minutes later, it still looked bad – the goddamn _Hulk_ in Brooklyn, and in trouble too, what the hell was Banner thinking – but Clint managed to forget about who this man was for a few minutes as he watched him scarf down his plate of poorly cooked lasagna. Banner licked his lips with the tip of his tongue, obviously hungry still but not daring to ask Clint for more.

“Help me finish it?” Clint offered.

Bruce gave a tiny nod, eyeing the rest of the pasta. “Sure,” he murmured. “Thanks.”

“You don't have to keep thanking me,” Clint said, in a joking tone but slightly uncomfortable as he put another slice on the doctor's plate. “It's bad lasagna.”

His unexpected guest didn't answer and started eating again, a bit more slowly this time. Clint thought of the rooftop barbecue he was missing and sighed inwardly.

“So what's the matter?” he asked.

“Nothing really,” Bruce mumbled, still poking at his food. “My laptop was stolen and... I can't afford to lose it – not this one. I'd rather get it back without making a mess.”

“Who took it?”

“Guy in a tracksuit. After dark, during a heavy rainstorm. I wasn't fast enough.”

“Two days ago?” Clint said, remembering the storm he'd heard drumming on his roof.

“Yeah. I followed him to a crappy building three blocks down from here. I can't just go inside and take it.” He shrugged. “I thought about just buying it back from them, but I'm afraid they'd recognize me.”

This was getting weirder and weirder. Clint thought he was the only Avenger with a normal, mostly crappy life. But Bruce Banner obviously had his fair share of banal problems too. Clint almost felt like protesting – the doctor was arguably the most intelligent man in the world, _and_ the most powerful being of the galaxy. Surely, life on Clint's scale, life on the streets, _tiny_ life was nothing Banner knew about. _Tony Stark_ was his best friend, for Christ's sake.

Yet Bruce was here, looking dejected and coming to Clint Barton because tiny life was apparently something they had in common.

“Of course, I can pay you,” the doctor began – and Clint flicked a green peppercorn right between his eyes. Bruce flinched and said “ow” and blinked at him.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Clint said in his sullen tone.

Underneath though, his heart was beating hard and fast at his own thoughtless move. This was the _Hulk,_ for fuck's sake, not one of his ordinary worthless neighbors. What was he thinking? He had just forgotten for a second – then again, Bruce had it under control. Clint had heard stories about Tony Stark poking and prodding him and provoking nothing.

There was still a rush in his ears for a few seconds.

“Let's go then,” he said, trying not to show any of his fleeting fear. “You can fill me in on the details along the way.”

If he could get this done fast enough, maybe he could still make it in time for the nightly rooftop grill.

Banner was still gaping at him. When he understood that Clint had agreed to help him, he looked even more puzzled, then incredibly relieved.

“Okay,” he said. “Clint, thank you.”

“Hey, what else are colleagues for,” Clint said with a grin. “C'mon, let's roll.”

 

*

 

Night was falling as they approached the building. It was really crappy indeed – actually, it looked like it was about to keel over any second. Clint sighed.

“Yeah, I know these guys.”

“You do?”

“Sure. I destroyed one of their casinos once. And I shot trick arrows at them in a car chase. I wonder if they still remember.”

Banner obviously didn't know what to answer to that. Clint rolled his shoulders and said, “What does your laptop look like?”

“It's... a grey Asus, with silver scratches on the side.”

“Like a cat clawed at it?”

Bruce had a small smile. “Wasn't a cat. But yes.”

“Okay, I'm going.”

The scientist looked a bit nervous. “What, just like that?”

“I know what I'm doing,” Clint lied. “They won't even know I'm here. You just wait, okay?”

“Wait – but – are you sure you don't need me to... do anything ?”

“Doc,” Clint said, “I need you to _stay_ here and... make yourself real small. Okay?”

Clint knew the anguish in his voice was palpable, and he felt kind of sorry he had to spell it out like this but the last thing he wanted was for the doctor to be triggered.

Bruce's face fell a little, and he nodded. “Of course. I'm sorry.”

He looked so sheepish Clint wanted to apologize as well, but he just shook his head. “It's alright. Let me do this."

“It's just... I'm just waiting for you to settle my problems,” Bruce winced. “I feel like the biggest asshole in New York.”

“Pretty sure Tony Stark steals the title,” Clint grinned. “And I agreed to help you, didn't I?”

The doctor nodded again. “Okay, so I'll just... wait here.”

“Atta boy.”

Clint ran across the street, jumped to grab the fire escape ladder and climbed it until he set foot on the lower flight of metallic stairs. He went up silently; the building was only four stories high and he could have just taken the stairs, but he'd still rather begin with the roof and make his way down. Always better to get _closer_ to the ground.

The roof was empty except for a sad bag of chips rolling across it. Maybe they ate barbecue up here, too. Maybe they had forgiven him for kicking their boss's ass – maybe they could just give him back Banner's laptop without a fuss.

 _Keep dreaming, Barton,_ Clint thought as he forced open the door that led down to the top floor. Four apartments on each floor; Clint decided to use his awesome eavesdropping powers. Kids crying in the first one, a couple having sex in the second one, nothing in the third one and nothing in the fourth, but the names on the doorbells were nothing he recognized. He took the stairs down to the third floor.

And jackpot – the name sounded right and the tags on the door were street code for junk dealers. He rapped at the door and waited. A thousand bolts clicked in the bowels of the apartment before it finally opened on a small guy who frankly looked like a rat. Good – they had never met.

“What d'ya want?”

“Hi, um,” Clint said in an unassuming voice, hunching in on himself to appear smaller. “My cousin told me you had... stuff to sell?”

“Wha' kind?” the rat said, dubious.

“Cell phones? An Iphone 5? I've got cash, man. I don't want any trouble.”

“Alright.”

The door snapped fully open. Clint walked inside – and froze.

“You fucking _punk!”_

 _Great, Tracksuit Dracula._ This one knew him. And the others three knew him too, judging by the way they stood up and looked around for something to beat him with. Why were so many people pissed at him?

_Okay, let's just go Skyrim on those idiots._

Except he hadn't brought his bow, which made perfect sense because of how cramped the building was, but still Clint felt uncomfortable without the familiar weight in his back. He rolled on the side just as a bottle exploded over his head and ran into the next room. He had kinda hoped the window would lead to the emergency stairs, but there were no windows whatsoever – only a pile of junk, cell phones, microwaves, computers – and a grey laptop in a corner.

 _Hello there._ He grabbed it and shoved it in his bag, then took a step back just as the door was flung open. The four mobsters walked in while holding a house contest of grim faces. Clint grabbed a computer and threw it at the first goon's face – loud crash, splinters everywhere, yowl of pain – then threw himself into a rough fight that had absolutely nothing heroic to it. There was biting and scratching and knee-to-the-crotch-ing, and Clint had fought against the Black Widow and lost, so hell, he could totally lose against four pissed-off guys with crowbars and baseballs bats. It had happened to him before.

As a matter of fact, something hit the back of his head hard enough to throw him into a daze. He wasn't knocked out, not really, but he had to watch his unresponsive body be pulled out of the small room; he was forced to his knees on the dirty carpet. Large, rough hands gripped his shoulders and upper arms; he was pinned on the coffee table and his t-shirt – _no no no, guys, c'mon, that's my favorite – argh –_ was torn into shreds, exposing his back.

“So,” Tracksuit Dracula said with a heavy Russian accent.

Yeah, _that_ guy. Clint had once punched him in the face for throwing his own dog into traffic, then proceeded to beat him up and send his boss Ivan away after buying his current business.

“You shoot your own foot, bro. Very stupid.”

Clint tried to break free, but he was only crushed more roughly on the table. The other smiled with lots of golden teeth.

“What you want anyway, bro?”

“I wanted a fucking phone,” Clint groaned.

“You got money to buy a building. You got money to buy normal phone. You don't come here.”

“Yeah, well – ”

“Don't care,” the mobster said. “Stop talking.”

He flicked open a knife and nodded to the other two, who held Clint tighter on the table. Clint struggled, but the bastards were heavy. Oh, this looked _bad._

“You're not seriously gonna kill me,” he panted. “You got any idea how hard it is to ditch a body? Not to mention the mess. Your place's filthy enough as it is.”

“Not kill you. Finish unfinished business. Think logical, yes?”

He grinned.

“You walk into lion's den; is normal to get claw marks, bro.”

Clint winced and pressed his forehead on the table. Tracksuit grabbed the back of his head and dug his knife into his shoulder blade, slicing a few inches of flesh open. Hot blood trickled down and Clint groaned between his teeth.

“C'mon, man – ” he panted.

“Name's Piotr,” the mobster told him. “Full name Piotr Antonovitch Touliakov.”

He grinned and Clint caught the gleam of his teeth again. “Think your back is large enough, bro?”

“Please stop,” a quiet voice said.

Clint startled and looked up – as much as his captors allowed him to.

Bruce Banner was standing in the doorway, very casually pointing a gun at them. His face was absolutely unreadable behind his glasses – he looked like a homeless nerd, disheveled and dirty and scrawny, but he had a gun.

“The fuck are _you?”_ spat Piotr Antonovitch Touliakov.

“You don't want to know who I am,” the doctor said calmly.

He cocked his gun. “Let him go.”

“Fuck you, bro.”

“Let him go,” Bruce repeated without changing the inflexion of his voice.

 _That_ got to them. Clint himself had to admit that for a guy who had anger issues, Banner was one scary-ass chill motherfucker.

Very slowly, the hands that were holding him down opened, and the goons stepped back. Clint slung his bag on his shoulder, wincing when the shoulder strap stung like hell on his wound – _Barton, you dummy –_ and got up on his feet. His head hurt, his shoulder screamed, and his shirt was dead. Fucking great.

“We're leaving now,” the scientist said.

“No you're not, bro” someone said in the dark hallway behind him – and a hand crashed on the back of Bruce's head to slam his forehead against the wall.

Adrenaline shot through Clint's system like a clap of thunder and he grabbed a chair to crash it across Touliakov's face. The other two pounced on him again, but Clint was so terrified of what was happening in the darkness outside that he took them out without even realizing it. He turned to the threshold and saw Banner on his knees, holding his face, fighting a full-body spasm when the mobster kicked him in the ribs.

“Hey!” Clint yelled – and the knife flew from his hand to stab the man just under the collarbone. He yelled something that Clint should have probably understood, but his Russian was rusty and that wasn't even the problem right now. He turned to Banner and just stared at him, chest heaving, a thousand possibilities running through his head and all of them resulting in his death. An observer would have had a hard time understanding why he was so terrified of the trembling hobo curled against the wall that smelled like piss and dust.

Banner shook for a good minute, then seemed to force something back. He stopped moving and Clint braced himself for the explosion.

The doctor took a deep breath, then looked up with a small scowl.

“Sorry,” he said. “I got it. Sorry.”

Clint breathed out with relief.

“We've got to get out of here,” he said after a minute. “Can you walk ?”

Bruce's eyes flicked at the door in a swift, guilty movement.

“I've got your laptop,” Clint told him.

The doctor's face lit up. “Oh!”

He looked weirdly younger for a second. The happiness was quick to desert his features, though. “Okay,” he said, milder already. “Let's – let's go. Sorry.”

Clint held out his hand and Bruce gratefully took it. He winced when he was pulled up on his feet and Clint froze again.

“Alright?”

“Not really,” Banner murmured. “I hadn't been beaten up in a while.”

They were hurtling down the stairs now.

“What do you mean, 'in a while'?”

“Well, I've got a knack for trouble,” the scientist said with a wry smile. “At least I don't have any broken bones this time.”

Clint outright stopped. “Broken _bones?”_

“It was just my little finger,” Bruce said in a guilty voice, as though he was apologizing.

“But you didn't... ”

Clint's voice trailed off. The doctor gave him a small smile, then kept going down, and Clint followed him, struck dumb.

When the door opened on the freezing air, the scientist unzipped his thick jacket.

“Here,” he said. “We're going to get noticed if you go around walking bare-chested in November.”

He shrugged it off and handed it to Clint, who took it reflexively.

“I'm bleeding,” he said.

“Uh,” Bruce said. “Well, I washed it three days ago, it should be fine.”

It took a good minute for Clint to understand what the doctor meant – that his clothes weren't dirty enough to risk contaminating him or something. He cleared his throat.

“Banner. I meant: I'm gonna bleed all over it.”

It was Bruce's turn to look confused. “It's okay,” he said. “I'm not wearing it for the color, you know.”

Clint barked a short laugh, then dropped the subject and put the jacket on.

“So that's how it feels to be Bruce Banner,” he joked, zipping it up. “Kinda cosy.”

The doctor blinked, then gave him a small smile, but Clint realized his joke hadn't been all that funny. Bruce was awfully skinny and his shirt awfully dirty underneath the thick down jacket. Maybe this was the reason he hadn't wanted to take it off earlier.

They quickly went down the street to reach a more animated place. Only then did Clint really start to relax.

“I'm sorry,” he said out of the blue.

Bruce looked at him with owlish eyes. “Sorry?”

“I've been jumpy as fuck from the second you knocked on my door, I know. But obviously you're a lot more in control than everyone gives you credit for.”

The scientist smiled a bit wanly. “You need stitches for your back,” he only said.

“It's just a knife wound.”

“Exactly.”

“Hospital's crazy at this hour of the night.”

Bruce shrugged and didn't insist. They kept walking side by side until they reached Clint's building and the door fell shut after them.

 

*

 

“Put it in the washing machine,” Clint said, discarding Bruce's blood-stained coat. “Third door to the right.”

The doctor nodded and walked hesitantly down the hallway, while Clint went into the bathroom to dig through the medicine cabinet. Disinfectant, disinfectant, he knew he had it somewhere.

He had just found it when Bruce came back. “I – um – is that your dog?”

Clint looked down at the dog drooling on Bruce's shoes. The scientist seemed very uncomfortable, like he had no idea what to do with a living being touching him so willingly.

“Heh,” Clint said. “That's Lucky. Good boy, Lucky.”

He petted the dog between his ears. “He's very clingy, sorry.”

“It's... alright,” Bruce said softly.

He crouched, fingers grazing Lucky's head gingerly. “I had a dog once.”

He did not add anything, and Clint was careful not to ask.

“You know, I'm sorry too,” the doctor said in a low voice, flinching slightly when the dog raised his ears, then carefully beginning to pet him again. “I – I shouldn't have walked into this building.”

“Well you saved my skin,” Clint mumbled. “Literally. So I'm not gonna be bashing your head with that.”

“I shouldn't have asked you to do this.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Did you need the computer or not?”

“As it turns out, I didn't,” Bruce said quietly, scratching Lucky behind the ears.

Clint stared at him.

When it became obvious that Banner wasn't going to explain, he said, “What?”

“It's, uh – ” a wry smile crooked his lips. “It's broken.”

“ _What?”_

“The screen's shattered and it won't turn on. Probably happened during the fight – or maybe even the day they ripped my bag off my shoulder, I don't know.”

He looked up and slightly pursed his mouth at the sight of Clint's shoulder. “You really need stitches.”

“Wasn't that laptop the most important thing you had?”

“It was,” Bruce said lightly. “Now it's not. Can I have a look at your shoulder?”

“No, you can't have a fucking _look at my shoulder!”_

Clint only realized he had yelled when Bruce blinked at him.

The scientist got up from his crouch, causing Lucky to whine at his feet. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Maybe – um – maybe I've invaded you enough. Sorry about all that. This was kind of a wasted day.”

He stepped back and picked up the down jacket he had left on a chair – instead of putting it in the washing machine. The stain of Clint's blood came briefly into view as he put it on; then he zipped it up and he was just an anonymous hobo again, screwing a baseball cap on his head.

“Well,” he said in a dejected voice. “I guess I'll see you around. Thanks again.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please, let me know what you think, I cherish any kind of feedback.


	2. Nagging

 

 

 

 

Clint went to bed without trying to go to see if they were still people on the roof. Chances were it was too cold anyway for a late-night grill. And his shoulder hurt as fuck. He just felt like burying himself under the covers until winter was over.

He tentatively moved his arm and winced. He _did_ need stitches, but none of the people living under his roof could be asked to get out the dental floss and just sew him up.

_You could have asked Banner if you hadn't thrown him out._

He had not thrown him out. The doctor had excused himself after Clint's unjustified outburst. No – hey – not _unjustified._ Truth be told, he _did_ think that Banner had outstayed his welcome, even though they had spent only a few hours together in the end. If not for him, Clint wouldn't have worried himself sick about the safety of his apartment and friends. He wouldn't have gotten beaten up and sliced like a goddamn pizza.

And he wouldn't have been twisting with guilt for breaking the one important thing Banner owned.

He sighed and rolled on his side. Fuck, but his shoulder really hurt.

 

*

 

“So is it repairable?”

“Have you tried turning it off and on?”

Clint was fidgeting already. He didn't like these stores and their harsh lights. What was he doing here anyway ?

His fresh new stitches pulled at his shoulder when he took a deep breath. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“Yes,” the technician said. “Hang on, I'll be right back.”

He took the laptop and disappeared into the back of the small shop.

After fifteen minutes, Clint shifted on his feet, unsure what to do. Was it supposed to take this long? Was he supposed to wait here like an idiot ? He wanted to walk out that door, but Banner's laptop was in that guy's hands and he probably shouldn't leave it there. Fuck, he was a moron. That was _Bruce Banner's_ laptop. Surely, people weren't interested in it just to sell it cheap in the streets along with various smuggled junk. Many organizations – among them SHIELD – would probably kill to get their hands on it. And what if Banner had been followed? What if people had seen him knocking on Clint's door? What if the building was already gone and what if the Tracksuit Russian dudes had been working all along for –

“Alrighty,” the tech said, holding the laptop under his arm. “It's ruined, obviously – I mean, not even duct tape could save that screen, and that's saying a lot. But – I could save most of the files, and even a few programs.”

He waved a smooth, black external hard drive and set it next to the broken laptop with a neat _clack._

“Wow,” Clint said. “Um, thanks, man.”

“You have to buy that hard drive though. Or choose another physical device to retrieve the data.”

“Like a... laptop?”

The technician looked at him over his glasses. “Sure.”

“Okay, so... what's the best you have?”

 

*

 

Fat lot of good this does for me, Clint thought, face to face with the shiny black computer he had bought. He had no idea how to get in touch with Banner, and he had a feeling he would fall flat on his face if he tried to find him on his own.

“I can just wait until he comes back,” he said out loud. “What do you think, Lucky?”

The dog wagged his tail for a second, then closed his eyes with a groan.

“Yeah, thanks for the big help,” Clint mumbled.

He wondered if Banner would ever want to see him again after yesterday's fiasco. Probably not. Well, it wasn't like computers were perishable goods; and seeing as they were both Avengers, they would meet again eventually. Hopefully, in a decade or so.

He put the laptop away in the bottom drawer and tried to forget about it.

 

*

 

The problem, Clint thought, was that he wasn't used to having so much money.

“It's real leather?”

“The best,” the sales assistant said with too many teeth in her smile. “This will last you years even in the jungle.”

Now that was almost eerily fitting. The jacket cost an arm and a leg, but it was warm and practical and hard-wearing. It was not too loud, either, something even a man living on the streets could wear without potential thieves noticing its worth.

Clint bought it a size too small even though he kept insisting to himself that he had every intention of wearing it someday. Oh, to hell with it, he didn't have to justify buying it to himself. After all, he had ruined Banner's coat, too. This was just repayment.

When he found himself thinking that he ought to buy more lasagna though, he shook his head briskly and tried to get the scrawny, sad silhouette of Banner out of his head for good. It wasn't his fault if people were scared of the Hulk, with reason, too; it wasn't his fault Banner was alone; it wasn't his fault the guy was both a freak and a normal person with the problems of both and the advantages of none.

Shit, he concluded, and decided that he needed coffee.

He grabbed his mail on the way and skimmed distractedly through it as he went up the stairs. The landlord really ought to fix that elevator – then he remembered _he_ was the landlord and winced slightly. Who was he supposed to call? Who fixed elevators? He had no idea how to be a landlord. He had bought the building on an impulse. Maybe he should hire someone.

He took the plastic bag between his teeth as he fumbled with his mail and keys, as though putting it on the floor was against the rules of some old childhood game. The jacket was heavy inside the bag and weighed on his jaw; exasperated, he folded it in two, tucked it under his arm and finally got the door open. He put it all, plastic bag and jacket, in the drawer with the laptop and closed it like he would have closed a file.

 _Coffee,_ he thought, still peeling through the layers and layers of publicity and bills. An ad for a new gym two blocks down. The usual five thousand crappy-band concerts. A flyer for a chemistry symposium – seriously? Pizza ads, burger ads, Asian food ads, sighteds offering their services. Pssh. He threw it all in the trash and was turning to the coffee pot when he head a weird noise. By the time he had turned, Lucky was neck-deep into the trash and judging by the sounds he was making, chomping glazed papers.

“Aw, Lucky, no,” he said, pulling him out. “If you're this hungry, just bark or something.”

He took out a few flyers and grinned down at them. “You really like pizza, uh? I can order a...”

The other flyer was half-torn but still readable. “...chemistry symposium,” he murmured.

He looked down at his dog, who just stared back with hopeful eyes.

“Dude, this is such a _stupid_ idea,” Clint told him. “He's a not a candle-struck moth or whatever. You think he's going to come running out every time someone says 'science' ?”

Lucky only stared.

“You just want pizza, don't you.”

More staring.

“Okay, right,” Clint mumbled, picking up the phone on the wall.

 

*

 

Clint felt uncomfortable again, and not only because he was going to a symposium he had no chance of understanding in a thousand years. He was uncomfortable because if he thought of a chemistry conference as a trap for ruffled scientists with anger issues, it meant nothing stopped _other_ people from having the same idea. And as said before, Banner and Barton were _not_ playing in the same league. Hawkeye could handle street gangs and murders and kidnapping on his days off. He could not handle armies and mass destruction and irradiated monsters. This was _Banner's_ ordinary.

But well. Guy was an Avenger now, right? SHIELD had had his back even before then. So they should be fine. The only reason he was on the streets was because Pepper had kicked him out...

Clint looked up at the small auditorium and winced as he payed his ticket. Why _was_ Banner living on the street? He was, there was no possible doubt – Clint knew enough about wearing the cheapest and warmest clothes, about not showering and not eating, and about lacking sleep seven days a week. But surely, Banner had money. Maybe not as much money as Clint; he wasn't a full-time employee, but still...

It was starting. The archer sat at the back and watched as the contributors followed one another on stage. Had he listened, he would have probably died of boredom, but scanning the room kept him from falling asleep completely. He still found himself at times flicking little balls of paper at the necks of people five or six seats ahead. The paper came from the flyer he had distractedly torn up.

Shit, four hours in and still nobody. Well, another wasted night. It was a stupid plan anyway. He should have dialed for pizza instead. Always listen to your dog.

Someone was very discreetly excusing himself for the bathroom. Front row. Clint squinted. Hey, he knew those curls, but he had been looking for a crappy baseball cap. The man escaping the room was well-dressed and not as hunched on himself as he should be.

Clint looked around. He hated being overdressed and he did not care much for his clothes in general, so he had come in his regular jeans and purple t-shirt. But the scientists gathered here were actually kind of classy. Of course Banner would know the dress code for chemistry symposiums. Of course he would stick to it, and of course he would sit at the front, because everyone was so used to seeing him in baggy clothes and dirty jackets and generally trying to bury himself into a hole.

 _Barton, you dummy._ Now the curly-haired ninja was going to the bathroom – more like running through the back door before the applause and the confusion of people picking up their coats and discussing what they had just seen and heard and asking questions about who you were. Maybe Hawkeye the Avenger ought to get out of here as well.

He was at the back of the room, so he had no problem leaving silently. So silently that the security guards at the entrance didn't look at him twice. Clint looked at _them,_ though – and once was good enough. Lumps and bumps under the black suits. A bit too heavily armed for a nerd gathering. There were two Avengers in this room and those guys obviously weren't there for Clint. _Small mercies._ All he needed was for Banner to rescue him _again_ because his lousy colleague had stepped in it. _Again._

Clint turned at the corner, then started running, but stopped after a few seconds. Obviously, there would be people waiting at the back door too, unless those were the stupidest kidnappers in New York. Clint could see their strategy coming miles away – nobody wanted another 'incident' in the city so Banner better come with them, yadda yadda. Usual stuff. Those guys were amateurs, but sadly, even amateurs could make this work. Blackmail never gets old.

If Clint intervened here, he would only make things worse. Like he had in the Tracksuits' lair. The horrible crunching noise of Banner's forehead hitting the wall was still vivid in his mind. Things could have gone to hell then, if not for the scientist's control. Deep breaths. Pushing the pain back. He remembered what Banner had told Touliakov – _you don't want to know who I am._

Heh.

It wasn't long before Clint reached the roof – the building was one-storied and yet there were emergency stairs all over the place. It was getting dark, but that had never been much of a problem for him. Night was a widely overrated concept in New York anyway.

He unzipped his bag and took out his folded bow. The string snapped in the air; he felt better instantly. Hawkeye's skin had always been more comfortable to wear. He crouched on the edge and waited.

Banner came out before too long. He magically looked like a hobo again – cap firmly stuck on his curls, and rumpled clothes hiding the shape of his body. Clint's breath was steaming in the chilly air.

Three of the Men In Black stepped out of the shadow. Bruce's shoulders just slumped, as though menacing strangers in dark hallways had stopped surprising him long ago.

“Come on, guys,” he pleaded. “This is my day off.”

“Day's over. You already know what I'm going to say, Dr. Banner.”

The doctor raised his hands, resigned. Then he said: “I'm guessing something along the lines of _arkkk.”_

“What?” the guy said, then _“arkkk”_ when Clint's arrow went through his throat.

The other two instantly pointed their guns at the roof – mistake. A split second of inattention and Banner had faded in the shadows. This guy was really good.

Clint snapped his bow shut and jumped up. Shooting fish in a barrel – or suits in alleyways – was no fun; and the third guy would need help getting to the hospital anyway, what with the shaft sticking out of his throat. Clint just had to vanish and no one could ever prove it was him.

After all, any idiot could go and buy a bow.

 

*

 

“Nice shot.”

Clint didn't startle – okay, maybe a little, but he had expected Banner to find him and not the other way around. The scientist had obviously spotted him in the conference room long before the sniper saw through his disguise. Clint turned slowly. Banner was on the other sidewalk like he was standing across a river of dark asphalt.

“Neck shots are the trickiest,” the archer answered, pushing his hands down his pockets. “You've got to miss the jugular, but also the nerves and the spine and all that shit. Necks are so full of important stuff it's ridiculous we survived so many years with them.”

A weird smile tangled in Bruce's lips, like it had ended up here by mistake. “I thought you'd killed him.”

“Killing's too much paperwork.”

His tough guy routine impressed ninety-nine people, but Bruce Banner wasn't one. The doctor took off his glasses and wiped them carefully, still on the other side of the urban river. Clint realized then that this scrawny little guy was almost fifteen years older than him.

“What were you doing here?” Banner asked.

“I love chemistry.”

“What was the title of the conference?”

“Okay, I was looking for you.”

“You knew these guys were coming for me?”

“No.”

“Why did you have your bow with you then?”

Clint wanted to say that he always had his bow with him or some shit, but he was too slow – Banner had already caught on.

“Oh.” He looked down with a wry smile and Clint caught himself missing the other one, the tangled one that had gotten lost and somehow landed on Bruce's face. “Do you have a... contract on me or something?”

 _“What?_ Of course not!”

 _I'd just rather be armed around you, like any sensible person should._ God, he felt terrible just thinking that. He almost would have preferred Banner to think that he _had_ been hired to kill him. The doctor looked a little lost now.

“Then why...”

Clint fucking crossed the fucking street and grabbed Banner's fucking wrist. “I'll show you why. But first I'm hungry.” He yanked once and let go to sling his bow on his shoulder. “C'mon.”

Bruce was so surprised he actually followed.

 

*

 

Looking down into his bowl of take-out Pho Soup, the scientist looked a lot more awkward than the stone-cold man who had pointed a gun at skin-slicing Russian mobsters.

“Don't like Vietnamese?” Clint inquired, mouth full.

“No, I do,” Banner mumbled.

He fumbled with his spoon for a second.

“Clint, why am I here?”

Clint was very good with chopsticks, even for stock-dripping rice noodles.

“What, like you had other plans?” he said, opening his mouth wide.

Bruce gave him a venomous look. Clint froze, then slowly put his sticks back in the bowl.

“Sorry,” he said softly.

The doctor just looked weary now. “No, I'm sorry,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Look, I appreciate the help and the food but... I haven't slept much. Can we get to the point?”

He did look exhausted, just like last time. _Yet you came to a chemistry symposium._ If Banner missed his old life so much, why couldn't he simply settle down? Clint scratched the back of his head, then got up and went to the bottom drawer. As though on signal, Lucky raised his ears and trotted to Bruce, who petted him like last time, gingerly at first then with a small smile.

“Here,” Clint said, coming back. “I owed you a jacket.”

Bruce gaped at him.

“Shit!” Clint exclaimed – and whipped the jacket in the air, making Bruce jump. “Aw, soup – no, it's not stained.” He brushed the jacket and realized he had uncovered what was beneath. “And also, well.”

The doctor stared at the shiny laptop for a good two minutes.

“That's... not mine,” he murmured.

“Technically no,” Clint agreed. “But your stuff's on it. What the tech guy could save anyway.”

Bruce was so gobsmacked it could have been funny, but combined with how tired he was, it just looked a bit sad. On his feet, Lucky whined and the doctor started petting him again mindlessly.

“I got my shoulder stitched, too,” Clint offered tentatively.

Okay, now he was just being ridiculous. The scientist still wasn't saying anything though. After another two minutes, his teammate shook a hand before his face. “Banner? Did I break you?”

Bruce blinked like he was waking up. Obviously, he wasn't used to getting back something he thought he'd lost.

“That's...” he said with difficulty. “That's... thanks. Thank you. How much do I owe you?”

It was Clint's turn to look stupid. “I hope you're kidding.”

“What, you're just gonna offer me a computer and a... cool jacket?”

Clint laughed at that. “Glad you like it. I was a bit worried it wouldn't be your style. And it's not a gift, it's repayment. A Lannister always pays his debts or something.”

Bruce gave him a blank stare. Yeah, living on the streets, not exactly good for your pop culture references.

“Why don't you get yourself a place?” Clint asked out of nowhere.

The doctor's empty gaze didn't change, but it magically felt extremely uncomfortable.

“Yeah, forget it,” Clint said very quickly before Bruce could answer anything. “None of my business.”

Banner finally managed to close his mouth. He sought his words for a minute or so, absent-mindedly playing with the hem of the jacket, his other hand still on the dog's head.

“Thanks,” he repeated.

“You know,” Clint said, “it's past midnight.”

The doctor looked at him.

“And there are, uh. Angry Russians outside? So if you... I've got a couch.”

Still staring. Man, had Lucky contaminated him or something?

“Well, um,” Banner said eventually, folding his glasses. “This is all going a bit fast. After all, it's only our second date.”

Clint gaped at him, then snorted a small laugh. Sassy Banner was something new and he didn't really know what to make of it, but it certainly was better than the puppy-eyed hobo he had taken home.

“Seriously,” he said. “I'm just... I'm just offering.”

“I can see that,” Bruce said quietly, eyeing the jacket and the laptop.

Clint's ears were starting to burn. This situation was totally awkward and why had he not realized it before ?

“Can I really stay?”

The question had been so small Clint thought he had imagined it for a second. When he looked up, Banner looked even more sheepish than the archer felt. “I mean... I'm still... me, you know.”

“Yeah, well,” Clint mumbled. “If you can handle a broken finger, I think you can handle my couch. Maybe.”

Bruce managed a smile. “It's that uncomfortable?”

“You don't even know.” Clint got up and threw his paper bowl in the trash. He really ought to buy proper plates and forks and corkscrews and stuff. “Bathroom's this way.” He pointed down the hall and added, “Feel free to ransack the kitchen.”

He yawned deeply. Shit, chemistry symposiums could really drain a guy.

“Clint.”

He turned around. “Yeah?”

“Thanks,” Bruce mumbled yet again.

Clint just shrugged and went to bed with a last wave of his hand, trying not think about how lonely and grim the doctor looked sitting there at his table.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you're liking this, please let me know. ^^


	3. Tenant

 

 

 

 

 

Okay, this might be really _bad._

 

Cling hung out with quite a lot of Avengers, actually. Mostly the girls, come to think of it – Mockingbird, Spiderwoman. The Black Widow. Tony Stark had come to visit, once. Clint kinda liked Logan – from a distance – and he got along well with Spiderman, whoever the kid was. But Bruce Banner was something else altogether. He wasn't a regular. He was heavy artillery and people only took him out for special occasions, like china wedding plates. In between, he was just... off the grid. Nobody knew where.

The Avengers' only regular guy had never thought he would hook up with the Hulk, of all people. But, here it was, Bruce was officially the first of them to have ever crashed on Clint Barton's couch. Save for Kate Bishop, but she was one of the Young Avengers, so maybe it didn't count and Clint was rambling again to avoid thinking about Banner.

The Hulk.

On _his_ couch.

 

*

 

Clint was prepared for the crossing of yet another Valley of Awkwardness in the morning, but as it turned out, Bruce wasn't even up. He slept the heavy sleep of the dead on the plump cushions, so deeply buried under the covers that all his host could see of him was a mop of unruly hair. Lucky was curled up on his feet, at the other end of the couch. The silver, cold light of nascent winter was washing through the windows. Clint liked getting up early. _To catch the worm, ha ha._

Bruce _kinda_ looked like a caterpillar in those wrapped blankets, though.

Clint tip-toed across the living-room and went into the kitchen. He left the door open and proceeded to make coffee. Sure enough, Bruce emerged from his cocoon a few minutes later. He sat up and stifled a yawn, squinting and completely disheveled and wearing a t-shirt too big for him – and no one could have guessed the Hulk was lurking inside this human puppy. Lucky certainly seemed to think they were kin.

“I hope the dog didn't bother you,” Clint said.

Bruce looked like he had just spoken Chinese.

“Coffee?”

That rang a bell. The scientist painfully extracted himself from the heap of covers, staggered across the room and muffled another deep yawn as he sat at the table. He closed his hands around the cup and inhaled for a good ten seconds before opening his eyes – with the most baffled and distressed look Clint had ever seen.

“Oh,” he said very softly.

“What?” Clint asked, alarmed.

Bruce glanced up at him with lost eyes. “I don't... drink coffee.”

Clint blinked.

“Oh,” he echoed, stupidly.

The scientist looked completely puzzled now, like he couldn't even believe it. An incidental teammate forgetting about a detail like this was one thing, but _him?_ Clint wondered how it was like – sometimes forgetting you were the Hulk and then waking up and...

He swallowed a lump in his throat. Yeah, he preferred not to think about it, actually.

“I'm sorry,” Bruce stammered, with that same astounded, miserable look. “I...”

“Hey, don't sweat it,” Clint hurried to say. “More for me. You want tea or something?”

The doctor locked eyes with him like he was a lifeline – his wryness and reserve had vanished with just a few hours of real sleep and a few minutes of confusion. How much time had it been since someone had seen him like this, with his guard down?

“Um, yes,” he said in a cracked voice. “Tea. Thanks.”

Okay, _there_ was that long, awkward silence Clint had expected. Banner stared at the dancing lights in his cup for a good fifteen minutes of quietness. Clint just kept his mouth busy with coffee and toast.

“I can't find a place,” Bruce said softly.

Clint froze as though he was a hunter with a deer in his line of sight. Don't move. Don't breathe. Don't exist too loud.

“After I left Stark Tower I tried once or twice,” the scientist mumbled. “But it's just... so much paperwork and it wears me out. I don't have the strength. The will. I don't know.”

Clint looked at him, but Banner wouldn't meet his eyes now. The archer had a feeling this was the first private thing the scientist had gotten out of his system in months.

He could have told Bruce about his years in the circus, then. How his brother and Duquesne had betrayed him and beaten him up and left him for dead, and how SHIELD had found him and hired him somewhat by force since he was too young to realize at the time. How he had refused for years to take an apartment besides his quarters at the Helicarrier, because everything that didn't move, that pretended not to change, was a lie. Everything crumbled eventually, homes, families, friendships, and there was no point in building any of it when everything could be just taken away from you at any time.

He could have told Bruce all that.

Instead he said:

“The apartment just below mine. It's empty.”

Bruce looked up with owlish eyes. “What?”

“Old Tyler used to live there, but he moved out like a week ago. So it's empty. He left most of his stuff, though. Furniture and all.”

He took a sip of coffee. “You just have to get the water and electricity running.”

The doctor just stared at him with round eyes. Then he snapped out of it and mumbled, “That's not safe.”

“I didn't mean water and electricity _together,_ everyone knows that – ”

“Two Avengers in the same building. It's not safe. And – _I'm –_ not safe.”

_Yeah, Barton, what the hell are you doing? Listen to the guy._

“You don't want me here, Clint. You don't – ”

“Hey, stop freaking out. It's your call, man. I'm just...”

 _“Offering,”_ Bruce said in a sour voice.

His eyes were screaming with distrust now; he lowered them with some sort of stubbornness and clenched his hands around the cup, pressing his lips in a tight line. Of course it looked suspicious. Hell, it would have looked suspicious even to a regular guy. Why couldn't Clint stop playing Fairy Godmother for like two minutes?

He sighed – and started rambling, because of _course_ he never knew when to stop. “Look – just because you haven't been given things in a while, it doesn't mean that it's always... a trap or stuff.” He took a breath. “I was kind of a dick to you last time, okay? And I did the very opposite of helping you, so – that explains the new jacket and the new laptop. Then I happen to have stupidly bought this building and it happens to have an empty apartment in it and – and that's all. That's it, really.”

Bruce looked up, still inching back slightly like a cornered wolf, but listening.

“I'm not giving it away, you know,” Clint went on. “There'll be rent and shit. I can just make it easier for you to deal with. I'm kind of a cool landlord. Who's got a place to rent. And if you don't want it – that's fine. That's, just... fine. That's what _offering_ means.”

Banner stayed silent for a long time.

“Are you serious?” he said eventually. “Are you seriously renting me a place – in, in freaking _Brooklyn?”_

“Hey, Brooklyn's the best part of New York.”

“Why?”

“Well there's kind of this cool – ”

“Why would you do this?” Bruce developed irritatedly.

Clint gave a half-shrug. “Becauuuse... I need a tenant?”

Bruce shook his head, his stubborn expression back like he only remembered now the reason he couldn't drink coffee. “No. No, I can't put the others at risk.”

“There are people out in the streets too, you know.”

“I can't stay in the same place for too long.”

“Banner, you're probably the only hero people recognize _less_ than me. Nobody knows your face except for the guys actually looking for you, and in their case, whether you're on the move or not doesn't make a difference.”

The scientist bit his lip. “But if – ”

“Hey, this is not another symposium debate,” Clint cut off. “Do you want the place or not?”

Bruce looked at him for yet another good minute.

He seemed really shaken somehow. Clint understood that for all his reticence, Banner wanted desperately to say yes. He was only arguing against himself here – just like Clint encouraging the doctor to stay when actually all he wanted was for them to shake hands and part for good. But the truth was, anybody else with _that_ many reasons not to do the thing would have walked out the door already.

The scientist glanced down at Lucky under the table, like he was looking for inspiration. Clint briefly wondered if _that_ was the real reason he had offered Tyler's apartment to Bruce – because collecting stray dogs was his unspoken hobby. The doctor looked like the same thoughts were crossing his mind now.

Eventually he said, soft and slow, “How much's the rent?”

 

*

 

So there.

After the very daring _Bruce Banner On The Couch,_ here came the grim sequel with a very likely horrible ending and it was called _Bruce Banner Is My Neighbor._ Kind of catchy. Maybe selling the rights could buy Clint and his tenants an obituary in the New York Times, since their inheritance would be spent entirely in radiation cleaning after their messy deaths in the undoubtedly imminent collapse of their building.

 _Man,_ did this look bad.

Clint's decision had been so stupid, though – and sudden and unrealistic and overall laughable – that by the end of the day, he had convinced himself that Banner had actually gotten the hell out of the building, and maybe out of New York in a whole, or even of the state, if not of the country, and that Tyler's place would remain empty for at least another week.

Which is why it was kind of a shock to him when he went on the rooftop that evening for the ritual barbecue, only to discover a very puzzled and seemingly terrified Bruce Banner talking with Aimee, the pink-haired goth girl from the fifth floor, like he had no idea how he had ended up here. Other tenants were chatting quietly around the place, waiting for Grills, the barbecue guy, to live up to his nickname.

“Clint!” the pink-haired girl greeted him. “Come meet the new guy!”

“I... kind of already did, Aimee.” Clint grinned. “Hey, Bruce.”

“Oh that's right, Mr. Landlord – wait, 'Bruce'? That's David.”

The spy didn't miss a beat. “I know. But I call him by his second name. Kind of an inside joke.”

“Oh okay,” Aimee said, already not listening anymore. “Over here, I think the hot dogs are ready. Grills?”

Bruce exhaled silently after she left. Clint came closer with a small grin and the doctor shot him a look. “It's not funny. She just _grabbed_ me and... dragged me up here. It's the middle of _November.”_

“Hot dogs, Bruce. Don't you like hot dogs?”

“You could have told me you were doing a remake of _Friends_ in your building. I would have said no.”

“Pretty sure _Friends_ didn't feature rooftop barbecues.”

The doctor rubbed his temple and Clint probably should have been scared, but his smile only widened.

“Hey,” he suddenly said. “You're wearing it.”

Bruce blinked, then glanced down at his leather jacket. “Oh. Yes. It's um, it's very... warm.”

The doctor really looked good in it. Too small for Clint, the jacket fit his leaner body perfectly and gave him this sort of cool aviator look. In the dark, the tiredness on his face showed a little less, too.

“How's the apartment?” Clint asked.

Bruce stifled a small laugh. Yeah, of course, asking this of a man who had lived on the street for several months, that was kind of stupid – but still...

“It's nice,” the doctor said, with a tentative but genuine smile. “It's really nice. Thanks.”

A hot dog had somehow found its way into Clint's hands, and he was going for a bite when something pulled at the leg of his jeans. He looked down and frowned.

“Aw, Lucky, how did you get up there? It's too cold!”

“Your dog has cannibal cravings today,” Simone laughed – she lived three floors down and was rarely seen, mainly because of her numerous kids. “Here, sweetie.”

She fed him a sausage he ate in two bites. Seriously, Pizza Dog.

“Hey, David,” she called. “Hot dog?”

“Uh – yes please,” Bruce said hurriedly – because he was starving or because he was so on edge, Clint didn't know. Probably both. “Thank you, um, Mrs...”

“Just Simone,” she said. “There you go.”

Banner stayed there looking down at his hot dog like it was a mysterious creature from outer space or something. Clint knew he should have been reasonable and told the doctor that he had been delirious earlier, and that it would be for the best if he left soon, and never came back.

But Banner had accepted. Clint couldn't decently hope for him to change his mind now. And Clint must still have a concussion, because standing there, he didn't feel nearly so worried as he should be. Instead, something inside him clenched at the way the doctor _kept_ studying his food, like he was trying to understand how he had gotten there, how was this his life, and how he was supposed to act in a whole.

Him and Clint both.

“Hey,” Aimee called out, leaning over the edge as she wrapped a strand of pink hair around her finger. “You know there's guys down front with _bats,_ right ?”

“What?” Clint mumbled, stepping closer to see.

It was starting to snow. The street down there was grey and blue. Clashing horribly in those soft tones were four guys in red-and-gold tracksuits. With bats indeed.

 _“Hey, broooooooo,”_ Clint heard distantly.

Hell no.

Those guys – they could beat him up and throw his dog into traffic and try their hand at engraving on his back. Fine. But they did _not_ get to hang around his building and freak everyone else out.

He stepped away from the edge and strode towards the door.

“Clint?”

“It's okay, Simone,” he said. “Enjoy your hot dog. Back in a sec.”

Clint felt Banner's gaze on him and held it in earnest. “You too, _David._ Don't meddle.”

The scientist said nothing for a second, then nodded. Clint almost tumbled one floor down, grabbed his bow on the way and hurtled down the stairs – he really ought to _fix_ that elevator. But who fixed elevators? How was he supposed to find out?

“Hey!” he called out as he walked out the front door.

His arrow ripped the bat from the hands of one of the mobsters.

“Get the hell away from my building.”

The guy just grinned. “Stupid, bro.”

“Uh – no, _you're_ stupid, bro – ”

The screeching of tires cut off his inspired retort. Two vans had just appeared on each side of the street, and dozens and dozens and _dozens_ of guys with bats and ugly tracksuits were coming out, as though there were photocopiers inside going crazy.

_Oh, this looks..._

Clint shot an arrow that got lost somewhere in the red-and-gold crowd, and then they were on him and everything became very confused. There were fists and bats crashing on his jaw and back and shoulders, and he was hitting back, fighting dirty like he always fought, he wasn't Captain America and he wasn't the Black Widow either, and this looked...

He was a fucking archer and for an archer, he didn't get to do that much archery. Where was his bow now? Someone had ripped it away from his hands. He knew how to fight but lots of people do, so maybe it was not his fault the snowflakes were melting into darkness and he was falling to his knees and everything was closing in on him – the buildings, the bats, and the pounding walls of his own mind.

This looked...

 

*

 

Clint woke up tied down in a chair, under a harsh spotlight. His eyes were always better than people gave him credit for – no matter how much credit was actually given – and he could make out maybe a hundred silhouettes in the darkness around him.

_Bad._

The word he had been looking for earlier. This looked bad.

Clint glanced around. It looked like an abandoned warehouse, with chains hanging from the ceiling, broken windows, the whole package. How many warehouses _were_ there in Brooklyn? Seriously, what with how often the villain of the week had been found hidden in one of those, the cops were only one or two judicious roundups away from eradicating crime in New York. Clint should give them the tip.

If he ever walked out of here, that is.

“Bro,” a voice said in the dark. “You make lot of big bad people real mad, bro. You steal our building.”

Okay, _there_ was the exit. Behind the five thousands Vampires. Clint thought he had seen someone hiding in the shadows. Even more guys?

“Is one thing to fuck with us. Is another thing to fuck with the guys we work for.”

Clint wasn't listening. He had trouble seeing all of a sudden.

Banner. Fuck. He was absolutely sure it was him. The scientist had ignored his warning once already. And now, Clint was in even bigger trouble. If Bruce showed up _here,_ though – he didn't know mobsters like Clint did. There were rituals. There were rules. Right now, Clint was being monologued at, and by the sound of it, he would be released with an ultimatum. He would be fine. A few bruises. Maybe some cracked ribs.

If Bruce came out of the shadows, if he interrupted the litany of threats in bad English, if he gave a hundred threatening guys something to actually _shoot_ at – oh, God.

“They want us tell you, they done with you, bro. You go way now. You fuck off.”

See? Clint thought desperately. They're not going to kill me. They're just barking at me. Don't fuck up, Banner. Stay hidden. Stay safe.

“Or is war, bro. Twenty-four hours, bro.”

The silhouette moved into sight and Clint took a sudden breath.

It wasn't Banner.

The tracksuit slipped in the warehouse like a kid late for class and mingled with the threatening crowd. Clint lost sight of him in seconds. He could just gape at the mass of shadows circling around him; there was nothing to be seen anymore, just those silhouettes like trees in a dark forest. The other guy was finishing his tirade.

“You gone or we killing everybody in you building, bro.”

A bag came over Clint's head and it all went even darker.

 

*

 

The archer without a bow was thrown into a freezing slosh a few steps away from his building. He stayed down for a minute, wincing as pain bloomed all over his body until he was just one giant ache on all fours in the snow.

He hoisted himself up like an old man and saw it. His bow. Right where those bastards had thrown it. He picked it up reverently, took off the drenched bowstring, then pushed the main door and walked inside. He couldn't help smiling at the flight of stairs.

_Really oughta fix this elevator..._

He took a deep breath, then gripped the banister and began climbing, heavily, painfully, one step at a time. He stopped at each floor and sometimes in between to catch his breath. Then he resumed his walk of pain. One step. Two steps.

“Hey.”

He looked up. Banner was standing just behind the threshold of Tyler's apartment, like he wasn't sure he was allowed in the stairwell. Clint wasn't sure he was. He wasn't sure what to think about the scientist right now. He just wanted a hot shower.

Bruce's gaze trailed across his swollen face and black eye.

“Are you going to let me have a look at you this time?” he asked softly.

Clint quirked a smile and shook his head. “Nah. I've got wagons of band-aids up there. But thanks.”

What was he thanking him for? Thanks for not coming to the rescue? But Clint had told him not to come. And Banner would have made it all worse. He looked intent on not causing any problems. He looked intent on listening to any stupid shit Clint said.

Good. Just – fine. He had a lot more on his plate anyway. First of all, this goddamn last flight of stairs. And second of all...

_Gone in twenty-four hours or we killing everybody, bro._

Yeah.

“G'night, doc.”

“Good night,” Bruce murmured, but he stayed there and watched him make his painful way up to the top floor, his open door the only source of light in the darkened stairwell.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The readers of the Hawkeye Comics will certainly notice that the part in the warehouse (dialogue and settings) is almost an identical copy of the middle of Fraction's story “Six days in the life of Hawkeye”. I'm going to play around with the comic storyline, cut it in bits and pieces to insert Banner in the picture. And eventually it'll grow into something completely different. 
> 
> Once again, if you haven't read the comics, you won't be lost. If you have read them, you'll notice that some parts are either completely similar or completely missing. It's normal. Just bear with me if you will, and I hope you'll keep enjoying this. ^^ Thank you for reading and commenting!
> 
> Also, all hail my beta laurie_ky, who is _perfect_. That is all.


	4. Runaway

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clint thought about it.

That is to say, he didn't. His options weren't even limited – they were nil. Thought he could take on a street gang by himself. Thought he was some kind of _person._ He should have known better from the start.

He didn't sleep, although he was dying for a soft mattress under his bruised body – instead, he started packing. It would not take very long since he didn't own that much stuff in the end. Not to mention a lot of it was _still_ in cardboard boxes, although he had moved in several months ago now.

There was no dishonor to it. It was so simple. You leave, no one dies. Someone else might have cowboyed around; a true hero would have stood his ground. But he was just Clint Barton and he had tried fighting already and, well, look at where he was now.

The Avengers would _most_ certainly manage. He just needed to get out of town for a while. No one would miss him. Hell, no one would even notice.

He looked at his bow and winced. This wasn't the folded, high-tech bow he carried around on missions, but a beautiful curve of white wood, now pathetically leaning against his couch. He couldn't take it with him.

Aimee, she was a bike messenger, right? And she didn't mind working at night. Clint wrapped the bow in green paper and took it two floors down.

Aimee raised her eyebrows at his beaten-up look, but said nothing, and put on her coat at once when he told her it was a special delivery. If someone deserved Hawkeye's bow, it was Kate Bishop, Clint's ward and, well, friend. He actually liked the idea of leaving this part of him in her capable hands.

He climbed back up even more slowly than the last time, half-expecting Bruce's door to open again. But the scientist didn't show up, and Clint dragged his feet into his living room, sat on the floor and unfolded another cardboard box.

 

*

 

Okay.

This leaving thing was proving harder than expected.

Be it because his body ached so much, because he kept having second thoughts or because he actually owned a lot _more_ stuff than what he thought, he didn't know; but the fact remained that it was now five in the morning, and he was still up – and ready to drop.

He actually woke up lying on the wooden floor, without having realized he'd been drifting. He groaned and glanced at the clock on the wall. He had only been sleeping for something like twenty minutes, thank God. But now, he simply couldn't move. He felt like lying there in a miserable heap until it was all over. Not his most glorious moment, but fuck it. Fuck all of it...

He was trying to talk himself out of his inertia when he heard the scream.

It was agonizing but only lasted for a split second, like it had been muffled by force. Clint's first reflex was to freeze, thinking someone had broken in his apartment – it was so close – but even for his drained mind, the thought of a burglar screaming his lungs out was kinda stupid. Next to him, Lucky raised his ears and groaned in curiosity. Not a threat then.

There was another scream – for a split second only, like the first one; so short it almost sounded like a horribly painful breath – and this time, Clint realized it came from below.

 

_Banner?_

 

Mr. Tyler had been a very silent old man. So silent his direct neighbor had never realized the building's stories were actually paper-thin. As it turned out, pressing his ear against the floor like this allowed him to hear even the faintest noises. Jesus, Clint had moved furniture around and stomped all over the place – he must have been keeping Banner up all night...

Except he hadn't. Obviously, the scientist was used to sleeping in much louder places. Because now that Clint thought about it, his voice had had this hoarse, veiled undertone that meant he was indeed asleep.

Having a nightmare, then.

Hawkeye had had his fair share of bad dreams after Loki. But never to the point of waking up screaming. Oh, no, wait, scratch that – Bruce _hadn't_ woken up; incoherent moans were bubbling up again from the floor below, growing louder and louder until they burst into a third scream, so horrified and desperate that it _must_ have jarred the doctor out of his restless sleep this time.

And indeed, for what felt like a very long time, everything fell silent.

Clint should have freaked out at Banner freaking out, but he was too exhausted to muster the required energy. He also should have been embarrassed at invading a neighbor's privacy like this. But he hadn't meant to eavesdrop; this fragment of the doctor's life had literally flown into his ear by a complete coincidence, and Clint was in too thick of a haze to snap out of his sluggish curiosity and get off the floor. He could hear Banner's loud, gasping breaths now. He pictured him, jolting awake in an empty place he didn't know, still tangled up in whatever awful visions had seized him.

Bruce's gasps were growing fainter by the second, though. The guy could not even afford to panic to his heart's content, Clint thought. He had to smooth it out, take control, chastise himself and shut up, shut it all up before it burst.

Then Banner's breathing turned into something almost inaudible, small sounds fading in and out of hearing's range, still firmly controlled, yet halting and pained somehow; something small and miserable. It took Clint a good minute to understand that the scientist was crying.

His stomach churned and he bolted up. He could not hear him anymore now, but it was too late.

Oh, he wasn't sleepy anymore _now._ He was horrified with himself for hearing this. Didn't take a genius to realize that Bruce Banner's dignity was about the only thing he still hoped to preserve. Clint felt like he had actually violated him. Not to mention he knew Bruce was still crying, and there was nothing he could do to help. Nothing at all. Because he couldn't let Banner know he had been heard, not in a million years.

The image of him – alone and trembling in a dark, foreign place – wormed its way into Clint's mind again.

He sat there, under the light too harsh for this late of an hour, staring at the floor as though he could actually see the scientist huddling in on himself below.

“Hey,” he murmured in a hoarse voice. “Lucky?”

The dog raised his ears again.

“Good boy,” Clint said, finally getting up. “Come over here. C'mon.”

He turned off all the lights, then opened his front door with infinite precautions – sounds echoed in the stairwell like in a chimney. He couldn't see a thing.

“Go now, go,” he muttered. “Go see Mr. Tyler. Remember? He used to give you sweets.”

Lucky was very clever when it came to eating, and he definitely knew people by their names. He raised his ears at Tyler's name and trotted down the steps, vanishing in the dark. Clint heard him scratch at Bruce's door seconds later.

Only then did he realize how deeply idiotic his plan was – why had he even listened to himself? People scratching at Bruce's door, after a nightmare, at _five in the morning?_ Fucking brilliant, Barton! The good ideas just keep piling up!

Sure, a dog scratching at a door sounded nothing like a guy _pretending_ to be a dog scratching at a door – you could trust Hawkeye and a weird-ass mission on that – but how the hell should Banner know? Oh, this was bad, this was so fucking bad, and the worst part was that he couldn't even call Lucky back or Banner would realize he had heard...

Then there was a _click_ and a pale light came up from downstairs. Only then did Clint stop freaking out long enough to remember. _I had a dog once._

“Hey,” he heard Banner whisper in a weary, weary voice. “What are you doing here? Clint left his door open?”

Clint's pounding heart calmed down almost instantly. He pressed his forehead to the wooden door frame and just stood there in the dark. Downstairs, there was a _click-click-click_ of dog paws on the floor and then Bruce's anxious murmur, “Hey, no – you can't just... what's your name again – Lucky? Lucky, get out of here.”

Clint could picture his dog even more clearly than he had pictured Banner – Lucky always went for a nap on Tyler's couch after his treat. For want of treats, he must have skipped to the sleeping part, and few things are more stubborn than a sleepy dog taking a couch for granted. And after a few seconds, Banner indeed acted like any sensible person would have – he gave up and closed the door, most probably planning to return the hairy invader to its rightful owner in the morning.

Clint sighed. _Earth's Mightiest Hero at your service,_ he thought tiredly. This could have gone wrong in so many different ways. Exactly why had he done that? He couldn't even remember. He should change his name to Dogeye or something, while he was at it. The hero so stupid, he wins by making his enemies collapse in sobs of despair at his outstanding thickness. Apparently after midnight, all his ideas were crap. What if he was having one right now without realizing it? What if Dogeye was accepted among the Avengers and became the most successful hero of all? What if Banner forgot again that he didn't drink coffee?

 _Should sleep,_ he thought in a vague moment of lucidity – and walked into three walls on his way to bed. By the time he realized he should have turned the lights back on, or at least aimed for the couch, he had reached his bedroom anyway. He flopped down on the mattress, thought that he felt like complete shit, thought that the feeling might be accurate, then stopped thinking altogether and it was the most blissful moment of his entire day.

 

*

 

“Hello?”

Clint groaned and rolled on his stomach, burying his head under the pillow. Judging by the light flowing in, he had only slept for three hours or less. Why couldn't people break into his apartment at a decent time?

“Clint? The – the door was open.”

Oh, he knew that unassuming voice. At least it wasn't the Tracksuits. Or a furious Kate Bishop ready to whack him to death with his own bow. Maybe Clint could handle an awkward scientist. Maybe Bruce was just here to borrow some tea. Or sugar. Or tap water – hell, Tyler had only left the furniture behind, not even all of it and oh, mother of all headaches...

Banner had stopped calling now. Clint thought of how _he_ would react, finding his neighbor's door open on an empty place, and groaned.

“'M here,” he said. “Coming.”

He thought about gliding out of bed like a slug, then decided that he hadn't stooped that low yet and sat up, wincing when various aches and bruises flared all over his body like he was a piece of modern art. He dragged his old bones out of the room and smiled when he was greeted by an enthusiastic dog panting at him like he was the best thing on this Earth after pizza.

“Hey there, Lucky,” he said, scratching his head. “Where have you been?”

Only then – _dummy, Barton –_ did he realize Bruce must have come to return his dog. And to ask _questions_. He looked up, but his story about old Mr. Tyler and Lucky escaping on his own got lost in the mail when he actually got a look at Banner.

The doctor did look like someone who had cried all night. But he especially looked like someone who had cried all night into the fur of a big dog. And because of that, maybe, there was a softness to his sunken features; some kind of appeased sadness, that made Clint's throat so tight no lies could get out.

“Thanks for, uh, bringing him back,” he mumbled.

He could only hope Banner would assume that Lucky had ran off on his own. After all, he had seen it happen once already, back there on the roof. So maybe Clint could get away with it all. Maybe Banner would just say _you're welcome_ and leave. He hoped so – he had to finish packing. There was no time. Only fourteen hours left, to be precise.

But it didn't look like Banner was going anywhere. He had this weird, searching look in his eyes, like he was trying to read Clint's mind. This didn't look so good.

“Going somewhere?” Bruce asked softly.

Oh, right. The cardboard boxes. Clint was so relieved Bruce wasn't pressing the matter of Lucky mysteriously showing up on his doorstep at five in the morning that he spoke without thinking.

“It's better like this.”

“Better than what?”

They exchanged a look that spoke more than words.

Eventually, Clint lowered his gaze.

“They're gonna kill everybody in this building if I don't go.”

His own admission surprised himself. But then again, he owed Banner a bit of his private life, even though the doctor – hopefully – wasn't aware of it.

“So you're just going?”

“Well, yeah. It's not like the Avengers will miss me or something. Maybe you'd be right to call me a coward but – ”

Bruce gave a little joyless huff. “That would be a little hypocritical of me.”

Oh.

Of course Bruce Banner knew everything about running away for the greater good. Was that how he felt then, all the time? Living in cardboard and shame at his own mistakes?

“Look, um,” Bruce mumbled. “It's your own business. But that other thing you said – why wouldn't the Avengers miss you?”

Clint hoped that was a rhetorical question, but everything just sucked today, because Banner was actually waiting for an answer with that deep look of his. Clint squirmed under his scrutiny.

“I don't know, man, it's – ” he bit his lip. “I'm just the guy with a bow, you know?”

Bruce stared at him for a long minute.

“Do you know what Tony Stark is doing right now?”

Clint blinked. He opened his mouth, but no politically correct answers were coming to mind, so he just shut it and shook his head.

“He's building suits.”

Clint snorted. “Yeah, I could have guessed – ”

“Dozens and dozens of suits, Clint. Night and day. That's all he can think about. Because after Manhattan, he realized he was just a 'man in a can' – his words, not mine – among a team of superheroes.”

Bruce gave a sad little smile. “And he's terrified.”

Clint was speechless. The doctor took a few small steps in the half-empty apartment, looking at the stacked boxes and at the folded clothes like they'd been his own a long time ago. “The Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion,” he mumbled.

He appeared to shake himself up and huffed a sheepish little laugh. “Um. Sorry.”

Retreating towards the door, he gave a last nod before abruptly vanishing down the stairs. Clint just stood there like he'd been punched in the face. For some reason, he noticed that it was snowing again. The bare walls felt colder.

He sat on a stool and wished he hadn't already packed the coffee machine.

 

*

 

An hour later, he realized that he had yet again forgotten to close the door when he heard the furious stomping of delicate boots coming from the stairwell.

“Let yourself in,” he mumbled as Kate Bishop rushed through the door, holding the great bow like some kind of curved bat.

“What the hell is – ” she began, then shut up and stared at him like she'd found him hiding a body. But he wasn't dissecting anything else than one of the cardboard boxes he had taped shut during the night. She glanced around, then at him and the boxes he had already reopened and emptied; and he looked back, and she didn't speak and he didn't speak and this was getting really embarrassing.

“Are you moving in or out?” she managed eventually.

“Back in,” he said.

He got up and took the bow from her hands. “Thanks.”

She detailed his black eye and swollen lip. “What happened?” she said, crossing her arms.

“Another car crash,” Clint said, burying himself inside the box. “Well, metaphorically, y'know, but it's still – c'mon, bowstring, where – ah.” He straightened up and blinked at Kate's unimpressed gaze.

“What happened to make you change your mind?” she said.

He focused on the great bow as he strung it carefully, tensing the string until the almost flattened curve bent into a more pronounced arc.

“Clint,” Kate said. “I've been working for you for almost five months. You've always needed _someone_ to steer the car.”

“Not very nice,” he said, groaning as he got up on his aching legs and tested the bow with aching arms and made his aching spine crack. “Assuming it's still a metaphor.”

“Yeah, well, doesn't change the fact that it's true. Who was it?”

“The Wizard of Oz,” he mumbled.

“So you're just going to take back your bow and pretend you didn't freak out overnight.”

“You should go home, Katie-Kate, it's going to get ugly real soon.”

She clenched her fists.

“Yeah, well, you know what? That's exactly what I'm going to do, _boss.”_

She disappeared down the stairs. Such a little rotten-spoiled brat. He loved her. No reason to get _two_ Hawkeyes tangled up in this mess.

Two minutes after she had left, he suddenly startled and ran to the window. Through the bars of the emergency stairwell, he saw her striding across the snowed-up street. There was a white van parked along the sidewalk, and he could have sworn the damn thing was _staring_ right at her. Following her with the headlights like in the old movies. Nothing moved, though, only the snowflakes falling down like there was no hurry, and Katie turned around the corner and vanished from sight.

Right.

Time to get this over with.

 

*

 

Clint zipped his coat but didn't put the hood on. His bruised face prickled under the cold wind which came rushing in when he opened the front door. He took a few steps in the crunching snow, and nocked an arrow in the great wooden bow.

Nothing happened for a long time. Then the driver's window of the van rolled down _._ The Tracksuit made a pistol with his hand and shot at Clint.

The archer drew his bow, which went high over his head like the spreading wings of a silhouetted bird. He could have stuck an arrow between the nail and the flesh of the forefinger pointing at him – but before he had a chance, the hand hastily retreated inside the van which roared to life and drove away, leaving black tire tracks behind.

 

Clint lowered his bow and sighed.

 

Man, six stories up.

Really should _fix_ that elevator...

 

*

 

His apartment was a mess, but he still noticed the little plastic box on the counter right away. It was filled with gauze, and anti-inflammatory cream, painkillers, that kind of stuff. There was a little note taped at the bottom.

 

_Band-aids aren't the universal panacea. Wizard's orders._

 

_B._

 

_P.S. You left your door wide open again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, hope you still like it! I would love to hear what you thought about that one. ^^


	5. Home

 

 

 

 

 

Clint started by crashing headfirst into his bed and sleeping for four hours straight. When he got out of his room, it was past noon. He dug out the coffee machine, drank straight from the pot with two of Banner's painkillers, and finally felt like maybe his body could still be of use. _If_ he didn't get beaten up in the next four weeks, which was highly unlikely.

He knew he should have thought of a battle plan, but despite his best efforts, he couldn't come up with anything better than making it up along the way. Strategy meant nothing when you were alone. It all boiled down to tactics. Which all boiled down to guts. So there, Clint was being a hero by putting everyone at risk, hooray. He still thought that running away would have been more reasonable. _And_ he wasn't even done moving into his own apartment.

Lucky's tail swatted the floor once or twice.

“You're useless,” Clint groaned, opening a new box. “And no, I still didn't find the dog food.”

The phone on the wall started ringing. Clint thumped his head against the cardboard box, then got up and answered it.

_“Suit up, Barton.”_

“Who's – Kate?”

_“Who else would be calling your sorry ass?”_

“I – what? Lots of people. Captain America, once. Look – I'm sorry about this morning. But I've gotten myself into some serious shit, and the only way to – ”

“ _Giants ants,”_ Kate said.

That effectively cut Clint off. “Giant... ants?”

_“Giant. Ants. In Forest Hills. Brooklyn and Queens are on curfew.”_

Clint's paged beeped on his belt. He stuck the phone between his neck and shoulder and checked it. 'Avengers Assemble, Location: Forest Hills'.

He grabbed the phone again and said, “Who the hell _sent_ those?”

_“How am I supposed to know? Might be just a natural phenomenon.”_

“Are you listening to yourself?”

“ _Anyway, Thor's not here and neither's Hulk, so they called the Young A on this, too. I'll meet you there.”_

Clint held onto the phone like it could physically keep Katie from hanging up.

“Wait wait – what do you mean, 'neither's Hulk'?”

_“No one has heard from him in months, Clint.”_

He swallowed.

“Well – if he's still in New York, he'll probably just... show up.”

“ _Not sure it'd help things. Anyway, SHIELD just sent someone to pick you up. Godspeed, Hawkeye.”_

“And you, Hawkeye.”

She waited a second so he knew she'd heard, then hung up. Clint blinked at the phone for a second, then dove into the heap of unpacked boxes and looked for the one with his gear in it, before he remembered he had put it in a SHIELD backpack so he would always find it easily.

He had just finished zipping his uniform when his beeper warned him that his ride would be here in two minutes. He shrugged the backpack on, slung a quiver on his elbow and another on his hip, then pointed at Lucky.

“Keep an eye out.”

The dog huffed in answer as Clint ran out of his apartment. Halfway down the first flight of stairs, he cursed between his teeth, went back up and slammed the door behind him.

He turned round, ready to start running again, but froze, startled. Banner was standing in the doorframe at the bottom of the stairs, looking slightly taken aback.

Clint opened his mouth, then closed it. The doctor took in his uniform and quivers; Clint distinctly saw his hand clench on the doorknob. He thought of telling the doctor what was going on, but thought twice – it might sound too much like he was trying to coerce Banner into helping them. He thought about telling him that he didn't _have_ to help, but maybe _that_ would sound like Clint was thinking the Hulk would only make things worse – like Kate had said. And maybe she had been right, but...

The unmistakable honk of a SHIELD motorcycle bailed him out. “Sorry,” he said with a small wince, “Can't chat, got a ride for Forest Hills.”

He hurtled down the stairs and rushed out in the snow. A leather black-clad figure was waiting for him on a very Tron-like bike, gleaming metal looking like it could withstand a crash with a five ton truck.

“You took your time,” Natasha Romanov said without looking at him, smashing a button on the dashboard which made the motorcycle shake and roar low like a rocket. “Good thing there's no one in the streets.”

Clint wrapped his arms around her waist and held tight; she pressed the gas pedal and the bike leaped forward in an explosion of blue light. They would get there in no time – the scenery flashed by in a blur. Natasha was zigzagging between the empty cars, racing on the sidewalks and knocking down a few trash cans on the way.

“Giant ants, uh?” Clint said, letting go with one hand to activate the com piece he had screwed in his left ear. “Sorry, but insecticide arrows aren't part of my repertoire. The closest I've got is that shark-repellant Stark tried to flog me once.”

“We all know you kept it.”

Clint grinned a little, then tightened his grip and said, “So exactly how _giant_ are we talking about?”

“Explosives should do the trick.”

“Oh great,” he groaned.

This looked...

...well, kinda _good,_ actually _._ A curfew would both effectively keep the Tracksuits out the streets, and force everyone to stay safe inside the building. Give him time to plan his next move.

What _had_ been his first move again?

“Careful – ”

Natasha took an abrupt turn to the left just as mandibles the size of a small plane tried to sever the bike. Clint hadn't even seen it coming and even now, there wasn't much to see – the monsters were simply too big to be looked at from the ground. The bike stopped in a screeching of tires and its riders jumped off and started running; one of the skyfighters already on scene grabbed Clint's wrist to take him away, and by the time they had reached the rooftops, Barton and his problems had vanished among the ever-falling snowflakes.

Hawkeye snapped open his bow and took his first shot.

 

*

Cue explosions.

Lots, and lots, and _lots_ of explosions. Hours afterwards, as Clint painfully came round on a hospital bunk, his ears were still ringing with the powerful echo of the blasts, his nostrils still filled with the acidic smell of roasting chitin. He moved his head and groaned. Oh, he had concussions. His _concussions_ had concussions. His body was now doubly aching, and his left leg felt completely numb.

 _Great._ Why did he always have to black out at some point? Once, just once, he'd love to finish a battle and still be actually on his feet. How could a sniper manage to get so beaten up each time, that was beyond said sniper himself.

“Are you in there, Hawkeye?”

He opened his eyes and smiled. Even when he was out of focus, Steve Rogers wasn't a difficult man to recognize. And Hawkeye had woken up in the Avenger Tower's infirmary often enough to literally know it by the smell.

“Hey, Cap,” he mumbled. “Did I miss anything important?”

“Do exploding ants qualify?”

Clint winced. “...Not really. Got my fair share.”

“Then no.”

Steve helped him to sit up. Everything spun around him and he thought he was going to throw up for a second. He forced his body to push it down, and swallowed thickly.

“My leg's asleep,” he moaned. “And honestly, I'm almost jealous at this point.”

“It's mutated formic acid,” a passing medic said. “Banner helped us process an anti-venom, so the symptoms should recede in a few minutes.”

Clint stared at her.

“Excuse me – Banner...? As in – _Bruce_ Banner?”

“Oh,” Steve said. “Exploding ants _and_ Hulk, then. Take your time, Barton.”

He patted his teammate's shoulder and left. Before the door had even closed, Clint was turning to the medic.

“Hey, lady, give me those crutches, please.”

“I said a few minutes, agent.”

“And I said _crutches.”_

She rolled her eyes, but by now everyone at SHIELD knew better than to argue with Clint Barton in medical.

“It's your leg,” she shrugged, and handed him the crutches.

“Damn right it's my leg,” Clint mumbled as he hopped out of the infirmary. “Certainly doesn't feel like it right now, but we've got history together, she'll come back to me in the end...”

“Talking to yourself, Barton,” Natasha said as she passed by.

“Shut up, voice in my head,” he retorted. “Now hold that door open for the poor cripple, will you?”

With a slight smile, the Black Widow obligingly let him inside the very busy and very loud debriefing room. The actual debriefing hadn't started yet, as they were waiting for everyone to show up; and since they had called both the Avengers _and_ the Young A on this, the room was crowded. Colorful heroes in flashy spandex or shining armors were standing in small groups and chatting animatedly like this was some kind of garden-party – except for the fact that garden-parties' guests usually aren't exhausted and covered in blood. As least Clint hoped so. His classy Katie-Kate could have confirmed it, but she was nowhere to be seen.

That couldn't be good. He was about to ask one of her teammates when he caught sight of Banner.

The scientist looked incredibly weary. The hideous beige floppy clothes he was wearing made him seem even more pale and hunched in on himself. Word was he flat-out refused to wear the black uniforms – or any uniform, for that matter – but obviously, SHIELD's wardrobe didn't extend much further than janitor's clothing. He was among the only ones actually sitting at the table; and among them, the only one uninjured. His arms were wrapped around his torso, and he was staring at the table with downcast eyes, looking like he only wanted to sleep.

Someone punched Clint's shoulder, making him startle.

“Hey there, Hawkeye.”

Kate was glowing – metaphorically _and_ literally, casting a dim light on her tutor's blood-stained clothes. He was very relieved to see her, not to mention the fact that she didn't seem mad at him anymore – the adrenaline of the battle usually put such things into perspective – but he couldn't help raising an eyebrow at her.

“Ant venom side-effect,” she grinned. “Mine seems funnier than yours. I believe I could actually bring it into fashion.”

“I think it's receding,” he said, carefully laying his left foot on the floor. It started to tingle, which was probably a good sign.

Clint glanced towards Banner again, but then Nick Fury and Steve Rogers walked into the room, which fell silent almost instantly. There was the scraping of chairs on cement as everyone found his seat, then quietness again.

Fury's debrief was neat and thorough. He was well aware that he was standing in a room filled to the brim with worn-out super-humans, and handled the situation in that regard. He wasn't giving out praise or blame, instead focusing on the enemies themselves and detailing everything which had been learned about them, in case of a repeat attack. Clint wasn't listening to a word he said.

He was looking at Bruce.

The doctor didn't appear to be paying attention either. He looked more miserable by the second, wincing at times as though the slightest sounds were painful to his ears. Fury wasn't talking about it, but judging by what Clint had heard, Bruce Banner had come out of nowhere and Hulked out to help them – _then_ proceeded to rough out an anti-venom for his injured teammates. No wonder he seemed tired.

Fury came to a conclusion and people started getting up. Clint drew back his chair and ditched his crutches – he had almost recovered anyway. He limped towards Banner who was getting up a trifle late, as though he'd been in too much of a haze to realize that it was time to go.

“Hey,” he said. “Doc.”

Bruce startled – then relaxed a little when he saw who it was. He even managed a smile. “Hi,” he mumbled. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“You look like shit.”

That had come out kinda wrong, but Banner's smile only softened more. “Tony Stark making small talk can be really draining. And I think giant ants also happened at some point.”

Clint gave a slightly nervous chuckle. “Hey – thanks, man,” he said. “For, you know. You didn't have to.”

“Yes, I did,” the scientist said in a low voice.

“How did you even know where to go?”

Bruce blinked at him. “What do you mean? You're the one who told me.”

“I didn't – ” Clint began, then remembered his nervous quip. _Got a ride for Forest Hills._ “Oh. Guess I did. That was – that was unintentional.”

“Of course it was,” Bruce said with a slightly sarcastic smirk.

It wore off fast enough though. Banner winced, then wrapped his arms around himself again. Clint realized he was actually shivering and trying to hide it. Of course, Bruce noticed he had understood, and smiled a bit sheepishly.

“I could use some sleep.”

“Well, I've got a ride home,” Clint offered, even thought it wasn't technically true at the moment.

For a second there, Banner stared at him in a really strange way, like he was trying to understand or remember something.

Then his soft smile crept back and he shook his head.

“Thanks, but – SHIELD wants me. Something to do with the anti-venom, and, uh – ” he licked his lips “ – assessing damage.”

Clint nodded hesitantly. “Alright then.”

Bruce gave him a last smile, then held out his hand. “It's been fun.”

They shook hands and he walked away. Clint watched him leave the room with a weird, uneasy feeling.

“Was that Bruce Banner?”

He turned to Kate and blinked at her. “What? Yeah. Yes, that's him.”

“Uh. Guy kinda sticks out,” was all she said.

She clasped his shoulder and smiled. “Now c'mon, Limping Hawk. If you can get us out of here before some desk agent gets a hold of us, I'll pay for the burgers."

He smirked at that. “After you then, Hawkeye.”

“Off we go, Hawkeye.”

As he followed her out, he noticed she wasn't glowing anymore.

 

*

 

They were joined by a few more teammates for the post-fight meal. Jessica Drew, the Spider-Woman, was among them, which was kind of awkward; she and Clint had been _having fun_ for a little while now – although she probably wouldn't have liked him phrasing it like that. But tonight, he was too worn out for any of that. Jess did seem more than a bit disappointed, but didn't insist when he got up and announced that he was heading home. She even bid him a warm goodbye along with the others.

Clint was more thankful than ever for the curfew that night. Apparently, the ants had laid eggs everywhere, so Queens' and Brooklyn's streets were to remain empty for another forty-eight hours, until the whole mess was taken care of. Forty-eight hours of quietness for Hawkeye. Oh, his bruises would be thanking him.

Climbing up the stairs felt easier already.

“Hey there,” he smiled when Lucky jumped at him to lick his face. “How's it going, buddy?”

He dropped his backpack and his empty quivers. He had lost all his arrows, but it was only explosive ones and those weren't hard to come by. The post-battle rush often left him in that state of fuzzy acceptance.

Something kept disrupting it, though. Clint couldn't have put his finger on it, but it was there. And it had nothing to do with the Tracksuits's threats, Jessica's hurt look, or Kate's fading glow.

He fed Lucky, stripped and took a shower before dressing himself in his civilian clothes, but his unformulated worry was weighing down on him and slowing his every move. After he put on his jeans, he completely stopped moving and just stood there to think, since it obviously wasn't going away.

_...Going away...?_

The thought suddenly struck him; he spun on his feet and walked out to hurtle one floor down. He knocked on Banner's door, but there was no answer. Clint hesitated, then turned the doorknob. It wasn't locked.

Tyler's apartment was just as he remembered it. There was no laptop on the table, and no jacket on the chair. It could have meant nothing at all, but Clint still knew, simply _knew,_ that the scientist was gone. He remembered that sad little smile of his as they shook hands.

_It's been fun._

Clint had felt it then, but only understood it now. Banner hadn't been talking about the battle. The moment he had left for Forest Hills, he had packed what little belongings he had and left for good. He would answer SHIELD's demands then vanish again.

Clint got out and went back up slowly, a little groggy.

Only when he pushed his own door open did he see the white envelope on the floor. He must have stepped over it at least twice. _World's greatest marksman alright._ He picked it up and opened it; Banner's keys fell in his open palm. There was a letter too, but the doctor was only telling him what he already knew. Not a word of explanation; only polite thanks and a formal goodbye. And a month of rent in cash – even though he had only stayed for two days.

 _Well,_ Clint thought, crumpling the letter in his hand. One less thing to worry about. He couldn't honestly say he was surprised. He had always hoped Banner would be smart enough to bail out before _something_ happened, and of course one of the greatest minds of the century wouldn't let him down on that.

But this didn't feel like Bruce had left because it was right.

This felt like he had left, because _leaving_ was Bruce Banner's after-battle ritual. No burgers or drinks, no sleeping himself into a coma, no crap TV with an unimpressed dog at his feet. Only waking up in the rubble and assuming he had to start over yet again, because that was how things worked in his world.

Clint considered the paper ball for a long minute. He unfolded it and smoothed it over the counter, over and over, until he got a flat sheet he could slip along with the money and the keys in his quiver.

Then he went to sleep, because there was nothing else to do.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, I'd be delighted to hear your thoughts. ^^


	6. Dead End

 

 

 

 

 

At first, Clint didn't notice how weird things had become. Probably because everything looked so _normal._

 

The day after the battle, he had gotten up very early and finished unpacking, even the boxes he hadn't actually opened _before_ his aborted runaway. Afterward, he had organized and sorted his trick arrows, like he'd promised Kate once. Then he had done the dishes, done the laundry, vacuumed the floors, wiped the counter, even scrubbed the goddamn sink. By the end of the day, his apartment was almost surrealistically clean and tidy.

The same thing certainly couldn't be said about Clint's mind. Now that night was falling, he had finally run out of things to do, and he was just sitting on the bare floor, staring at the blackened screen of his TV. And he still had virtually no battle plan whatsoever.

He couldn't ask anybody for help. He couldn't simply tell his neighbors what was coming – that would cause more harm than good. He couldn't call the cops either – his distrust towards them was too deep-rooted for that. At least he didn't have to worry about including Banner in his equations anymore.

The thought didn't comfort him as much as it should have. Bruce had been the only one who knew about this shit and now, he was gone.

Well, whining wasn't going to get him anywhere. In Clint's case, the best form of defense was obviously attack. But even then, what were his options? Killing wasn't one, if only because they were so _many_ and Clint somehow felt he couldn't justify multiple murder before the court, on the sole basis that his victims had _threatened_ him.

Besides, this wasn't how he played. His teammates all had different takes on that particular issue, but even though Hawkeye's own ledger was far from being clean, he wasn't especially eager to add a hundred lines to that record. Even if said lines wore tracksuits in particularly poor taste.

_Rambling, Barton._

But fuck, what _could_ he do? In his book, street survival boiled down to a single rule – _keep your head down –_ which he just kept breaking. You didn't take on a gang of mobsters unless you _could_ actually do it. Or unless everyone else believed you could.

His phone rang, but Clint didn't answer. The answering machine whirred to life.

 _“Pick up,_ durak. _It's after battle poker night.”_

Clint laughed out loud in his apartment. The bitter echo made it sound like his place was immensely empty – _this_ was why he hated cleaning it up. Lucky raised his ears, and his master petted him gently, leaning back against the couch.

Natasha's sharp voice rose again.

_“Seriously, Barton, we need a fourth. Get your ass to the mansion down the block.”_

“I'm at war,” he told the phone.

 _“Fifteen minutes,”_ the Black Widow went on as though she had heard and ignored him.

She hung up and Clint sighed. He still had until tomorrow night to figure out something, and he was running in circles anyway. Getting out of his apartment might do him some good. Also, he had zero motivation to make dinner for one, even though he hadn't eaten anything today but milk-soaked cereals.

His empty stomach won over his empty mind.

 

*

 

As he locked the door of his apartment, the smell of grilled meat made him look up. The door leading to the roof was open.

“Grills?” he said, going up a few steps. “You're not supposed to be out there. There's a civilian curfew until tomorrow night.”

He heard grease sizzling over the fire and scoffed. Seriously, this guy. He climbed up the remaining steps and stood there, watching his neighbor bending over the small barbecue like a priest over the altar.

“S'okay, Hawkguy,” Grills answered him, flipping small pieces of meat as he spoke. “No ant eggs up here. I checked.”

“Yeah, well, be careful,” Clint muttered. “I'm going out for a while.”

“Wait,” Grills said. “Is Old Tyler's place still free?”

Clint doubled back. “What?”

“My niece needs a place is all,” Grills explained, voice low and slow as usual.

This guy always seemed to have all the time in the world and at times, Clint envied him.

“And I'm livin' here, so I know you're no swindler and the place ain't crap.”

“No.”

Grills looked up. “Sorry?”

“No, it's taken,” Clint said sharply. “Some guy named David. He was here the other day, don't you remember?”

Judging by Grills' surprised look, Clint had been too aggressive. He blinked and smiled to defuse it, but there was still a twitching in his hands that surprised him.

“Guess I didn't pay attention,” Grills muttered eventually.

 

*

 

“Two pairs,” Mockingbird announced.

_Sure, Barton, snap at the guys you're supposed to protect. And then leave them unprotected on rooftops!_

“Two pairs – kings and queens,” Jessica Drew said. “You're going down, Bobbi.”

“Calm down, Spidey girl. Let's see what the Russian's got.”

_You should have insisted he stayed inside and grilled near a window or something. Fire alarm's crap anyway._

“The Russian's got a splendid full house, ladies.”

“Fuck _you,_ Romanov.”

“Clint? What have you got?”

_What about Aimee on her bike? Going out at night and everywhere in town. Can't protect everyone. Can't just lock them all up._

“Clint?”

He startled and straightened up. “What? Oh. Sorry. I got... the Ace of Spades and the Jack of Hearts?”

“That's not even a hand. Learn how to bluff, Barton.”

The Black Widow's smile grew sharper at the edges. “Seems like I win _this_ game.”

“I'm out,” Jess said, flipping her cards over the table.

“Yeah, me too,” Clint said, relieved he wasn't the first one to give up. “I should be heading back anyway.”

He knew he wouldn't when Jessica's hand lingered on his arm, fingers trailing down as he got up.

 

*

 

Despite everything, it was good.

“Clint,” she murmured when she came, and for a second, everything felt nice and easy _._ Post-battle sex always came with a last rush of adrenaline Clint hadn't found anywhere else. The body's way of reminding itself it was still alive and celebrating.

Jessica was breathing deeply next to him now, treading their fingers together, extending their arms high above; and Clint abandoned his hand to her, staring hazily at their fingers lacing and unlacing in new patterns against the bluish glow of the moonlit ceiling. He was familiar with the mansion's rooms, but that particular light hypnotized him every time.

“Weren't you poisoned during the battle?” she whispered.

Empires rose and fell before Clint realized he had to answer something.

“Yeah,” he said, twitching his left leg. “Got better. You?”

“I'm immune.”

“That's right.” He smiled. “Spider-Woman.”

Another long pause. He focused on breathing in and out. The beds in the mansion were impossibly comfortable. New York was strangely silent outside. He liked it. The quietness. Their fingers tangling together.

“Clint.”

She inched closer.

“Are you okay?”

He let his hand fall down. “Yeah, Jess.”

The cooling sweat on his body was making him cold. He propped himself up and sighed. “I should really go back.”

“Are you in a hurry?”

“Things going on at home.”

He got up.

“I'll see you soon.”

_I hope._

He was feeling good only the minute before, but now he felt empty – cold and empty – and wished he hadn't stayed. But that wasn't something he could decently tell her. When he went down the stairs, Bobbi and Natasha were nowhere to be seen, which was a relief. He left quietly, without turning on the lights.

As he walked away from the mansion, puffing out little clouds in the freezing air, he felt something in his pocket. Someone – himself, absently? – had stuffed the Ace of Spades and the Jack of Hearts in there. He stared at the cards, debating the merits of going back, then decided he'd just return them next time. He was still quite tired, and he couldn't face Jessica again, even though there had been no actual fight.

_Learn how to bluff, Barton._

He sighed. That wasn't going to happen anytime soon.

_Learn how to bluff._

Wait.

He got out the cards again to stare at them some more. Yes – that was the only solution. Fake it until you make it. You didn't take on a gang of mobsters unless you _could_ actually do it – or unless everyone else believed you could.

Clint pocketed the cards and began walking again with a wry half-smirk. Pretending to be a hero, now _that_ was something he could do.

 

*

 

Everything looked just so normal – and _that_ was what was weird.

Clint was kinda confident the Tracksuits wouldn't try anything during the day and so far, he hadn't been proved wrong. So he played night vigilante around the block, chasing away every car that stopped for a bit too long or every punk holding a spray can. Honestly, he felt more and more ridiculous doing that – those people weren't dangerous – but what else was there to do?

A week later, his bruises had turned a sickly yellow, his apartment was still pristine, no one even risked _looking_ at his building anymore – to the tenants' mild surprise – and still not a single Tracksuit in sight. Everything was perfectly normal.

This looked _so_ bad.

Clint's only hope was that whichever Dracula ran the Tracksuit Vampires – most probably the old guy who had delivered that little speech in the warehouse – was clever enough to realize that just like Clint couldn't afford killing them all, _they_ couldn't afford murdering a whole building of people. This was Brooklyn, not an actual small town in the depths of Transylvania. In the end, what _could_ they do? Clint hadn't given in to blackmail. Maybe it was _their_ bluff he'd called –

No.

No, he was trying to convince himself that their threats meant nothing. And _that_ he definitely couldn't afford. It took only a second of inattention from screw-ups like him for people to start dying all over the place.

So he kept watch at night. Night after night, after night, after night.

 

*

 

It was two weeks after the battle that Clint heard the noise. It was a soft, clanking sound which sounded awfully familiar.

It was almost December now, but Grills was still grilling away; and, frankly, Clint didn't mind the company. Helped him to look alive on this fucking freezing rooftop. But the distant, metallic echo just now suddenly made Grills's presence look like a very bad idea. Because Clint knew that noise. How could he not?

People climbing up the emergency stairs.

“Gil,” he said.

Grills looked up. Clint never called him by his real name.

“Go inside.”

His neighbor blinked like a big bear shaken out of hibernation. “Hawkguy...?”

“Just go the _fuck_ inside!”

Clint winced and cursed inwardly. “Sorry,” he said in a low voice. “Sorry, Gil. Please go inside. Please.”

“Alright,” Grills muttered.

He gave a last longing look at his barbecue, then turned away and closed the door of the roof behind him. Clint snapped his bow open in a jolt, nocked an arrow and waited.

“Don't even _think_ about it,” he spat when a hand grabbed the edge of the roof.

Four grinning Russians – were they even really Russians? – climbed up with identical grins. Clint locked the muscles in his back and took a deep breath. _Learn how to bluff, Barton._ He had already let them go too far.

“You think a guy won't shoot at you just because he's grilling steaks in fucking November?” he called out. “I'd run away from someone like this, myself. Who knows what else he's capable of.”

Was it bad that he didn't believe in his own threats ? It certainly _looked_ bad. Fuck it, let's settle for a goddamn cliché – those guys probably didn't understand half of the things he was saying anyway.

“I'm going to count to three,” he said. “One. Two – ”

It all happened very fast.

Tracksuit on the right pulled out a gun and Clint's arrow ripped it from his hands and everything went south from there. In the split second it took Clint to draw and nock again, they were running at him and he should have drawn _four_ others arrows instead of just another one, _dummy,_ and the first guy took it to the shoulder but then Clint's hands were empty and the other three just pounced on him.

He understood quickly enough that they weren't trying to fight. Good move – on this open rooftop, only four guys – he would have chewed them to _bits,_ but they had gotten him down and now they were dragging him towards the edge – oh _no_ – _no no no_ – Clint clawed at the ground and kicked so wildly he hit one in the jaw but that still left two others and _fuck_ and _fuck_ and no, no, _no –_

It all happened very slowly.

They threw him over the edge and he twisted his body in the air like a cat, because if he landed on his feet he _could_ survive six stories down, oh that he'd learned, and he caught a gleam of metal and those idiots had thrown him above the emergency stairs, and even though everything was going so slow, he still had to be quick – arms extended, spine in a curve, gather momentum, impact in three two one – he thrust his hips forward just as he grabbed the metallic platform. The shock almost dislocated his shoulder and the sharp edge cut deeply into his hands but it didn't matter because he'd landed with a roll and a loud _clang_ on the platform below.

_Sorry guys, next time you do this, make sure the guy's not a carnie –_

Now he heard steps and he definitely couldn't fight three guys at once on cramped emergency stairs, on the fifth floor, and with two deep, twin cuts in his palms. He closed his fists to stop the bleeding and immediately regretted this decision – but his hiss of pain wasn't heard over the clanging sounds of people rushing down the stairs. _Gotta move now_ – he hurtled down in turn. How well he knew this type of stairs; stay near the wall to muffle the sound of your steps and hide yourself from those above. _A carnie and a thief. Barton, my fucking hero._ And he'd lost his bow, too. _Again._ Should have let Kate have it. Should have let Kate have everything he owned. He hoped for an open window, something that might get him back inside the building, but it was fucking November so no luck. He hoped nobody was waiting for him down there, but his goddamn name was Clint Barton.

So no luck.

The emergency stairs plunged into the darkness of a narrow dead end – and wouldn't those last three words make a perfect title for his autobiography. At least, what, twenty guys waiting down there. With bats and crow bars and dogs.Fucking _dogs._ Same breed as Lucky. _Should have brought pizza._

Clint just stepped over the edge and jumped – he didn't get to pull _that_ move so often. He fell with all his weight on someone's back, and he was pretty sure the resulting _crack_ meant a blotch of red in his ledger. He didn't have the time to worry about it. He didn't have the time for anything. Dead or not, the guy's hands went limp, the gun slipped down from them – Clint grabbed it and rolled on the cold asphalt as the other collapsed forward. When he looked up, he was crouching in the middle of a threatening circle.

They were strangely silent. Like a pack of dogs. Gather round before the quarry. The actual dogs were growling, and their masters smirking. The view from the street was completely blocked.

“Dead end, bro.”

Clint took aim without a word. An obscenely red blood was trickling down his wrists and inside his sleeves. The dogs could smell it and fought their leashes. Above them all, the thin crescent of the moon was nothing more than a nail paring stuck in the orange sky.

What an ugly world and what an ugly death. Clint didn't even get to rejoice at the nobility of his own sacrifice; it only meant the Tracksuits would get their building back and evict everyone. He wasn't flying a nuke through a portal, he wasn't crashing his plane in the ocean, he wasn't walking unarmed towards an Asgardian Destroyer. He was just getting beaten to death in an alleyway. He had always known his lack of plan would come down to this; yet even now, he still couldn't see what else he could have done. And he hated to think that it just meant this was his destiny. That his death was just proportionate to his life.

That _this_ was how Hawkeye's story was _meant_ to end.

He blinked fast and took a deep breath. Tears would blur his line of sight, and he really wanted to take at least six of these bastards with him. One per bullet.

Someone laughed.

“No use, bro. The Family say you dead. And you dead now.”

“The Family?” Clint panted. “Is this some bad remake of _The Godfather?”_

One of the dogs barked and growled. Against them, he could do little.

“We been told, is impossible,” he heard. “Too dangerous killing an Avenger. But in the end – ” – a hand mimicked a shooting gun at him – “is almost too _easy,_ bro.”

Clint cocked his gun and held his breath. Oh, to be on a rooftop with a bow. He'd never asked for much. The other guy grinned.

“Let's count to three, bro.”

Back muscles tighten and lock.

“One.”

_You have heart._

“Two.”

_No. Oh no, no. Don't let that be your last thought._

He wanted to think of something good, but nothing came to mind. Nothing had mattered. He hadn't let anything matter.

 

“Three,” a sharp voice said behind the crowd.

 

The Tracksuits turned as one man and a dozen guns were cocked at once. The newcomer was plunged in the shadows. Unarmed. Small guy. He shrugged off his backpack to drop it on the ground, only succeeding in looking even more scrawny.

Not a chance.

“Go away, bro,” a Tracksuit warned. “Not your business.”

“The Avengers are very much my business.”

They barked with laughter. “You an Avenger, bro? _You?_ Which one?”

Banner's eyes flashed green and he roared, _“GUESS.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you still like it, it's always a delight to hear from you. ^^


	7. Rebirth

 

 

 

 

 

 

Suddenly, Clint's eyes could see the tiniest details – Banner's pupils shrinking into pin-points in glowing pools of radioactive green; the vein throbbing on his temple; the drop of sweat rolling down his neck; his tendons sticking out on his wrists as he clenched his fists; his lips curling up as he clenched his teeth. And he heard the growl, the unearthly _growl_ coming out of his throat – and already, his frame looked sturdier, his stance more aggressive, more _savage._

The dogs began to whine and tug desperately on their leashes.

“What are you doing?” Clint yelled at the petrified Russians. _“RUN,_ you fucking morons!”

Bruce curled on himself then threw his head back and howled at the skies – an awfully hoarse noise, as though razor blades had gotten stuck in his throat. It was enough to shake the Tracksuits free of their horrified fascination and they ran away like panicked ants. Lights lit up at the windows above; dark figures pressed against the glass, but right now Clint didn't give a shit who was watching. Banner was holding his head with both hands now; he growled and fell on his knees, bent down to press his forehead against the asphalt, but his back was bulging and ripping his shirt in shreds, his skin a sickly green under the orange streetlights. He roared again and slammed his fists on the ground, hard enough to crack it.

“Bruce,” Clint panted –

 _“CLINT!"_ Banner howled, as though he was angry at _him._

He groaned and ground his teeth like he was in agony, and yelled _“CLINT_ _!”_ again, _“CLINT!”_ as he smashed his fists on the floor over and over again. There was less strength in his blows, though. _“Clint,”_ he panted out. _“Clint_ _!”_

At first, Clint thought Banner wanted to smash him– but he realized how vastly wrong he was quickly enough. The doctor wasn't feeding his own wrath, but trying to exhaust it with this strange mantra. He was trying to remember _who_ would get hurt if Hulk came out. He was telling himself, telling the _other_ guy, _it's Clint, Clint, Clint._ Oh, Hulk was friendly enough on the field, but this wasn't the field – this was a dark alleyway in Brooklyn, and the more Banner fought the transformation, the more Hulk was likely to explode with uncontrolled rage when he got out.

 _If_ he got out. The doctor's tremors were subsiding.

Clint realized he was holding his breath.

“Clint,” Bruce said, his jaw impossibly clenched but his voice almost normal now. “Clint. Clint. Clint.”

His muscles were less defined, his torso less bulky. His skin less green. His fists were still so tight he must be hurting himself, tendons sticking out, veins bulging under the skin; drops of sweat were rolling down his neck and into his already damp curls. But he was undoubtedly calming down.

“Clint,” he huffed with difficulty.

Clint was very careful not to move. Gut instinct. He thought of talking to Banner, of confirming it was him, but he didn't say a word, for the same reason he wouldn't have spoken to the pilot of a falling plane.

“Clint,” Bruce murmured in a long, long sigh.

He went boneless on the ground. It was over.

Clint oddly remembered Jessica twisting in pleasure under him and exhaling his name. Although the circumstances couldn't have been more different, the inflection was _exactly_ the same.

Suddenly, the aftershock caught up with him. He wavered, then his legs went wobbly and gave out. He caught himself on the cold ground; the sharp pain in his sliced palms was helpful to his shocked mind. He took a deep breath, held it and got up again, limping towards Banner.

“Hey,” he said, crouching next to him.

Bruce was violently shaking, still on his knees and pressing his forehead to the ground, arms wrapped around his bare torso. Shreds of his shirt were hanging off his sweat-damp shoulders.

“O-oh,” he panted in a garbled voice, as he straightened up on his knees. His forehead was scratched from pressing at the ground. “You shouldn't – oh – oh God. That was c-close. So v-very – very close. I'm s-sorry. I'm s-so sorry.”

“Don't give me that shit, man,” Clint breathed.

He clasped Banner in his arms and held him with a strength proportionate to his relief. “Thank you,” he panted. “Thank you for coming back.”

The doctor stiffened at first – and yeah, sure, physical contact probably shouldn't have been Clint's first reflex – but he was in no state to fight it; after a split second, he relaxed minutely, and even let his head rest against Clint's shoulder, with a sigh that shook him to the bones. Clint felt his shaking fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt.

They caught their breath together for a while. The doctor never let himself go entirely though, like he had no idea how to act, like he almost wished Clint would let go of him. Clint wanted to ask him how he could be here and what _for_ , but now wasn't the time. Banner was shaking more violently than ever in his arms.

“Hey,” Clint said softly, patting his back once. “The Moscow Menace is gone. We shouldn't stay here. Think you can handle the stairs?”

“Still haven't fixed the elevator?” Bruce murmured through chattering teeth.

Clint blinked, then chuckled in surprise. He didn't think the scientist would remember such small details of his life.

“Working on it,” he said. “Seriously though, is it okay for you to move? Not that I don't love it here, but it's kinda freezing, and you're – ”

 _“Not_ naked,” Bruce panted. “Let it be noted that I kept my goddamn pants _on.”_

Clint grinned again. “Duly noted, doc. Now get up. C'mon.”

He helped Bruce to his feet and grabbed the discarded backpack before slinging the scientist's arm over his shoulder. Bruce was breathing deeply, but seemed otherwise fine. They walked inside the building and started going up with slow, measured steps.

Clint was only too familiar with the Climb of Pain, but he caught himself thinking that it felt much easier helping someone do it. On the fifth floor, they stopped and leaned against the door of Bruce's apartment so the doctor could catch his breath. His shudders had gotten worse. Clint wanted to ask him if he felt like climbing the last flight of stairs, but what came of his mouth instead was, “Oh crap. I bled all over you again.”

Bruce glanced at the bleeding hand clutching at his shoulder, and gave a small, lop-sided smile. “Are you going to let me have a look at you _this_ time ?”

Clint snorted and helped the doctor to straighten up. “Let's take care of you first, alright?”

“If you think dying me red is going to help,” Bruce began, but then he slipped a few inches down and Clint hurriedly caught him.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Just forget about the stairs.”

“What, you repaired the elevator while I wasn't watching?” the scientist panted.

“No, Hulk Sass, we're just going to crash here instead.”

Clint got the keys out of his quiver and opened the door. Bruce's apartment was exactly how he'd left it – not even too cold, thanks to the central heating. Clint turned the lights on and helped Bruce to the couch, dropping the scientist's backpack on the floor.

“But,” Bruce said in bafflement as he sat down.

Clint looked away. Oh, he didn't like this part.

“Can we do this?” the doctor was saying. “It's been two weeks – hasn't it been rented yet?”

“What do you mean?” Clint said in a casual tone, leaving him there to go close the door. “This is your place _, David.”_

Bruce opened his mouth, closed it. “I left you a letter...”

“Yeah, but you know what they say about doctors and handwriting. I just assumed you were paying a month of rent in advance,” Clint ostentatiously lied.

He wished they could have just dropped the subject, but the look of utter astonishment on Banner's face wasn't going to fade away anytime soon. Clint squirmed inwardly.

“I don't suppose you've got a change of clothes,” he went on.

Banner just kept gaping at him.

“How about you go take a shower and I'll bring you a shirt?” Clint said in a desperate last attempt.

Bruce blinked, then finally took the hint. “Um,” he murmured weakly, “um – yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Sounds good.”

“Awesome,” Clint said – and literally fled out to rush up the stairs four at a time.

He dashed inside his apartment, slammed the door behind him, leaned against it and let out a long, long sigh that ended in a groan. He closed his eyes, rubbed his temples.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

His sudden entrance had jolted Lucky awake; the dog hesitated, then came forward to nuzzle his master's foot. Clint let himself slide down to sit on the floor, and put his arms around his Pizza Dog.

“Good boy,” he sighed.

He just stayed there for a long minute, releasing the tension of these last hours. After a while, Lucky whined a little and licked his face.

“Aw – hey – stop,” Clint laughed. He pushed him back and scratched him behind his ears, but he wasn't seeing him really. He couldn't stop thinking about the complete incredulity in Bruce's eyes.

Clint had almost died maybe half an hour ago, yet what took his breath away now wasn't retroactive panic, but a powerful heartache on Banner's behalf. The doctor's gratitude, his _speechlessness_ just now _–_ the same as when Clint had bought him the laptop. What kind of life had he been leading, for the tiniest acts of kindness to plunge him in such depths of perplexity? Especially considering the fact that Banner had just _saved Clint's fucking life._ One would think he would _expect_ gratitude in return; but instead he just kept apologizing and being generally befuddled with Clint's behavior.

Had Clint even thanked him? Yes – yes he had, and Bruce had been surprised by that, too.

Sitting there on the floor, Clint was seized with a pang of the same soul-deep empathy he'd felt after he heard Banner crying alone. He tried to remember that he ought to be scared, or at the very least, cautious – fear was mandatory in order to stay healthy around the Hulk – but he just kept seeing Bruce curling on the asphalt and nearly choking himself so he wouldn't hurt anyone.

Clint scratched Lucky's head one last time, then sighed again and got on his feet.

 

*

 

“Hey, Bruce,” he called out, pushing the door open. “Clothes are in the plastic bag – I'll just leave it on the...”

He froze and blinked at the doctor, sitting exactly where he had left him. “...couch.” He coughed. “Uh, you're not in the shower.”

“Living up to your codename,” Bruce said with a half-smile. He patted the first-aid kit next to him. “Now show me your hands.”

Clint blinked again, then scoffed. “Seriously?”

Bruce produced a pair of glasses and put them on his nose, then gave him a pointed look.

“I can take care of myself, you know,” Clint said.

“I don't doubt it,” Bruce answered.

He didn't move though.

Clint shook his head, but he was still smiling and drew a stool to sit in front of his teammate without further protest. Banner's hands were soft and cautious as he examined him with a slight frown. The cuts were clogged with blackened blood; Bruce cleaned them gently but thoroughly, then poured disinfectant on a cotton.

“This is going to sting,” he murmured as though out of habit.

Clint pictured him saying this in the exact same tone to a little kid in India or Brazil, and his stomach did a weird twisting thing. Maybe Bruce would have been happier in those sunlit lands, where people didn't cringe at the mere sight of him. Or maybe he'd feel the same anywhere. The weight of the world on his shoulders and the shadow of it over him.

“You're really stubborn,” Clint said softly as Bruce dabbed antiseptic on his wounds.

“Mmh,” the doctor only answered, focused on his task.

He probably hadn't even heard. He finished by wrapping light gauze around Clint's hands, then took them in his and examined them with a critical eye. “Well, I guess this could be worse,” he mumbled.

Clint left his hands where they were for a few moments. It had been a long time since anyone else than a military medic had taken care of him like that.

Then Bruce glanced up and Clint immediately withdrew his hands to grab the plastic bag.

“There,” he said, dropping it on Bruce's lap. “I found you a button-down. Didn't even remember I owned any.”

“Purple,” Bruce noticed with a half-smile as he peered inside the bag.

There was another pause; then he looked up, with darker eyes, and for the second time since they'd met, something circulated between them – a moment of wordless understanding. They already knew what the other was about to say.

“So,” Clint said in a low voice. “What were you doing here?”

Bruce's smile grew even wryer, and he looked away, letting go of the bag to rub his hands together. “I don't know,” he said. “I felt responsible, I guess. You stayed in this building because of me.”

“I stayed _thanks_ to you.”

Bruce scoffed and didn't comment. “I told you,” he just said, “I've got a knack for trouble. The second SHIELD let me go, I was back in Brooklyn. I'm not even sure why. But I could see our common _friends_ looked very agitated.”

“Wait – for how long exactly did Fury keep you?”

Bruce shook his head, _doesn't matter,_ and said, “I thought maybe you'd have told that girl – from the Young Avengers. Bishop ?”

“Katie,” Clint said. “Hawkeye, too. No, she doesn't know.”

“...Jessica Drew, then?”

“No.”

“Does _anyone_ know?”

“Just you.”

Bruce looked at him for a long moment. Then he glanced back down. He wasn't trembling anymore, but he still looked very pale and drawn; fighting the Hulk back must be incredibly draining. Clint remembered how exhausted he'd looked in the debriefing room, and wondered whether SHIELD had let him rest at all before _assessing damage._

Whatever _that_ meant.

“Look – ” Bruce muttered. “If you want me to go, there's no problem.”

Clint did the exact opposite of what he felt – he laughed out loud. The doctor blinked at him in confusion.

“ _Bruce.”_ Clint scoffed.“Working alone's not my – my code of honor or something. I'm just trying not to drag anyone into this shitstorm, y'know ? But if you actually _want_ to stay – well, by all means... I mean, you're a grown adult, this is your place, and you're paying the rent, man. I'm not going to evict you.”

Bruce gave him a wan smile, then looked down yet again, rubbing the back of his head.

“Those guys – they know I'm here now.”

“Who, the Tracksuits? They don't know you _live_ here. They'll just assume you came here tonight for Avengering business, or something.”

Bruce was obviously struggling to find a final reason not to stay. “Clint, you know – ” he muttered to the carpet. “You know this _can't_ end well.”

“Yeah, I know,” Clint winced in mock terror. “I'm such a shit magnet, you should really run while there's still time.”

Bruce's features quivered, then sort of melted back into a smile and Clint knew he had won. Well, for now. Banner was just too tired to fight anymore, but as soon as he felt better, he would start thinking again, dreading again – and eventually running again.

Not if Clint could help it, though. It was at this moment that he realized he really _wanted_ Banner to stay. Why, he couldn't tell for sure; maybe he was just desperate for someone to share his secret with. Or maybe he didn't think anyone deserved to be kicked out on the streets – in fucking _November._ Intellectually, he knew that letting Bruce stay was an awful, stupid, possibly deadly decision; Hawkeye's vicinity was dangerous at the moment, and Hulk's vicinity was dangerous at _every_ moment. The two of them in the same building would be like a time bomb.

But Clint had gotten quite good lately at making awful, stupid, possibly deadly decisions.

“Alright,” he said. “It's settled, then.”

He held out a challenging hand; Bruce eyed it warily, then shook it with a small smile, the one that said, _oh, I'm going to regret this_.

“Hey, how about some celebratory pizza?” Clint said to distract him.

Bruce stifled a little laugh. “Clint, I just want to sleep for two days.”

Clint briefly squeezed Bruce's hand in his, then got up.

“Your loss, man. I'll see you tomorrow.”

He was about to leave when he stopped and turned back. “You should _really_ shower first, though. Trust me, you _don't_ want to sleep covered in blood.”

“Remind me never to ask you about _that_ story,” the doctor said with a little wince.

Clint laughed and said, “Good night, Bruce,” and closed the door behind him.

 

Going upstairs, he was strangely giddy, like an excited little boy on Christmas. He should have been crushed with anxiety, devastated with guilt, consumed with worry and other wonderful things. But he wasn't. Not even a little.

For the first time in months – in years, maybe – he just felt really _good._

 

*

 

The feeling hadn't quite subsided in the morning, but the certainty of it undeniably did. Sitting there in his kitchen, Clint was experiencing a level of awkwardness one man alone shouldn't have been able to reach.

What was happening now?

 _Obviously,_ he had to fight back, but should he – what, _wait_ for Banner? After all, the latter had seemed invested enough in the whole Tracksuit business. Clint didn't know exactly what the doctor had agreed to yesterday : staying in the scope of his teammate's car crash of a life, or playing an active part in said road accident? For the life of him, Clint couldn't remember for sure, and it was driving him crazy.

Someone knocked and he bolted up, ran to the door and almost tore it of its hinges – and blinked.

Kate gaped at him, her fist still hovering in the air after she'd knocked.

“Oh – hey,” Clint said, as though morning violence towards innocent doors was a perfectly casual habit of his. “How are... things?”

Kate glanced down at his bandaged hands, then up at the scratches on his face from when he'd been dragged on the roof.

“What the _hell,”_ she said.

Clint scratched the back of his head. “I was having breakfast...”

“Well, you must be doing it wrong,” she said, still eyeing his wounds with round eyes which suddenly narrowed. “What's – actual _bandages ?_ Usually you just wrap yourself in band-aids.”

“Wanna eat something?” Clint said hurriedly.

Kate squinted at him, then raised an eyebrow. “Alright. Who is she?”

“What – _what?_ God, no.”

“You're so bad at this,” Kate said. “I thought you were hooking up with Spider-Woman?”

“It's not – no,” Clint stammered. “Just. Okay, someone did this but. It's nothing like. Um. It's just – ”

“The ' _Wizard'_?”

“Yes,” he said, relieved she'd found a way out for him.

This wasn't just about keeping his beloved ward safe. Sure, he trusted her with _his_ life, but Banner did not. And if SHIELD's behavior was anything to go by, maybe Pepper Potts wasn't the only reason he'd chosen to stay off the grid between Assemble calls. In any case, Clint certainly hadn't encouraged Bruce to move in for good only so he could shout the news from the rooftops.

“I see,” Kate said, before nodding at Clint's wounds. “And did Mr. Wizard do _this?”_

“No, just the bandages. Are you coming in?”

She sniffed, but ducked under his extended arm and walked inside. “Hey there, Lucky,” he heard her say as he closed the door. “What has your moron of a master been up to ?”

“You just lost your breakfast rights,” Clint told her as he went back into the kitchen.

She patted the dog one last time then straightened up to follow him. “Seriously, boss, what's going on? You've been acting strange ever since the Attack of the Ants.”

“Oh yeah?” Clint mumbled.

“Yes,” she said seriously. “Your apartment.”

“What about it?”

“It's _clean._ Too tidy. Like you've been putting your life on hold. And what's with the constant beating up? New kink of yours?”

“Hey, nine-years-old shouldn't talk like this.”

“Clint.”

He looked up. “I'm fine, Katie.”

Kate Bishop wasn't the type to complain that they didn't talk enough – on the contrary, she'd usually prefer a good punch in the shoulder to a lengthy conversation. But right now, she was still staring at him, looking unsure whether to press the issue.

And that was when Clint realized that at some point – insidiously, perhaps – something had broken between them.

Or maybe it had just never really been there. Clint had asked Kate for her help because he thought he'd seen something of himself in her; as it turned out, though, she was nothing like him. Katie wouldn't have let the Tracksuits play by their rules. Katie wouldn't have thrown herself into battle without a plan. And Katie wouldn't have let Jessica hope for something she couldn't give.

“You're a better Hawkeye than me, little girl,” he muttered, sipping his coffee.

“Now you're just freaking me out.”

There was a note of true distress in her voice.

Clint sighed. “Kate – it's okay, really. The Wizard, he's just my new neighbor, real name's David. He's a doctor.”

Well, that wasn't a complete lie.

“And as for the rest, I'll take care of it. One way or another. But thanks.”

He realized his voice had the same inflection as Banner's when he'd said _It's been fun._ The realization frightened him. Were Kate and he done – as in, _done ?_ He didn't want to. But he couldn't let Kate share his troubles anymore, and when it came to him there wasn't much else to share.

“Idiot,” she hissed.

There wasn't much he could answer to that. He turned his back to her and pretended to fumble with the cupboards.

After a few seconds, he heard the door clicking shut; and although he just wanted to run after her and tell her everything, tell her what a useless moron he'd been from the start, tell her he just wanted her to be safe – although he wanted to tell her he needed her, he didn't.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and triple thanks to everyone who already commented! It makes me so happyyy *flails*


	8. Counterattack

 

 

 

 

 

“Okay,” Clint said out loud.

He took a deep breath, then whipped the giant map in the air; it spread out with a great rustling noise, then slowly fell like a bird gliding down. Clint smoothed it once or twice, then took a big red marker and sat cross-legged on the floor.

He gnawed the marker for a second, then looked up at his front door, as though it could have encouraged Banner to come knocking and put an end to this uncertainty. Nothing happened, though. It had taken Clint several hours to snap out of his haze after Kate left; it was now the middle of the afternoon, and still no signs of life from the fifth floor. Maybe Bruce had left again. The thought depressed Clint even more, so he decidedly turned his back to the door and tried to focus on his Bedford-Stuyvesant map.

Right. Okay.

_Right._

He started by circling his own building, then the building he'd broken into to retrieve Banner's laptop. He outlined the Tracksuits' secret casino – where he'd found and rescued Lucky – then БOЛВAHЫ Town – a well-known joint of theirs – and finished by marking every building he suspected they owned. The results weren't what you'd call outstanding. There was no visible pattern emerging that could explain why the Tracksuits were so keen to get their building back and kick Clint out of it.

This was how he was supposed to act, though, wasn't it? He had to think two steps ahead. Find a way to outsmart them, to be the one leading the game.

But what if there was no game? What if they were just tired of Clint stepping on their toes? There was nothing he could do then. There was no plan to foil. They were just out for his blood and he couldn't do anything but fight...

No. No, no, there _must_ be something more. Something that would allow him to _build_ instead of just waiting for their next move.

Lucky, who'd been quietly napping on the floor until then, suddenly raised an ear and opened his good eye to stare at the door. After a while, though, he simply sighed a little and rolled on his back. Probably Grills going up to the roof.

Clint sat gazing at his map. Useless piece of shit if he ever saw one, but he couldn't keep just fighting off the Tracksuits forever. Yesterday had been a very close call – _too_ close. Maybe he should just get his hand on a goon and make him talk, but if really there was a greater picture, those guys would probably know nothing of it. _The Family,_ they said. _Is one thing to fuck with us. Is another thing to fuck with the guys we work for._

This bucked Clint up a little. Yes, there was a reason people wanted him out of the picture; and if he managed to find these people, to find this reason, maybe he could still...

Lucky opened his eye again and groaned a little. Clint turned again; and this time, he got up silently.

He padded barefoot across the floor; he gripped the doorknob, waited for a heartbeat, then imperceptibly shuffled his feet in a fighting stance and violently opened the door.

Bruce nearly jumped out of his skin. _“God!”_

Clint blinked at him. Bruce stared back, eyes wide, trying to regain his composure.

“I – um – you startled me,” he mumbled. “Sorry.”

He'd been so surprised that he had crumpled the notes he was holding – Clint almost feared his eyes would flash green, but thankfully, Banner had gotten over the shock quickly enough. He must have been hesitating to knock for long minutes, if Lucky's behavior was anything to go by. Clint took in his tousled hair and the dark rings under his eyes with a growing feeling of bafflement. Bruce looked like he'd just woken up: he wasn't kidding when he'd said he wanted to sleep for two days. And somehow, Clint doubted he'd often had the chance to actually do it after an _incident_.

So why wasn't he still in bed now?

“I was... going to knock,” Bruce said in increasing embarrassment.

“It's alright, man,” Clint assured him. “Hey, what do you have here?”

The scientist looked down at his papers. “Just something which might be of use.”

Oh.

He'd actually come to help.

Clint tried not to let any of his gratitude or relief show – it probably wouldn't have been very dignified, because he was so amazingly grateful not to be alone in this shit that he could have hugged Bruce all over again. He couldn't have precisely placed at which point his underlying fear of the Hulk had begun to fade – not that it had vanished really; but the fact remained that Banner actually showing up was the best news he'd had all day.

Bruce, meanwhile, was looking more and more awkward, anxiously awaiting Clint's reaction. He coughed a little and mumbled, “Of course, if I misunderstood what – ”

“Tea ?” Clint said.

Bruce looked up at him, mouth still open, sought his words for a second, then just nodded with obvious relief. “Yes. Please. Thanks.”

Clint grinned and let him in. Bruce walked in a bit too gingerly for a guy who already knew the place, but when he saw the map, his hesitation vanished.

“Go ahead, have a look,” Clint said, going in the kitchen to set the kettle to boil.

By the time he'd come back, Banner had dropped his papers next to him and sat on the floor, pushing his glasses up to study the map. Lucky had already laid his head on the scientist's lap with a look of utter bliss, and Bruce was petting him absent-mindedly, like he hadn't even noticed him. He frowned at Clint's scribbling, then looked up and held the red marker questioningly.

“May I?”

“...Sure.”

“Okay,” Bruce mumbled, twisting off the cap. “I've only been around for a few days really...”

He proceeded to circle a few buildings, then a dozen more, pausing from time to time to search his memory or flip through his notes, before going at it again. He must have been investigating the Tracksuits himself. Only then did Clint realize, with full-force, that Banner was genuinely trying to just _help him,_ without expecting anything in return, and that he'd already gone out of his way in that purpose. Clint stood there looking at him for a minute, and he'd felt so alone and so shitty the whole day that a wave of gratefulness overwhelmed him again.

The kettle whistled, making him startle a little. He swallowed the lump in his throat and prepared two mugs of tea, because he wasn't enough of a bastard to torture Bruce with coffee. He was going to sit next to the scientist, but the sight of the map froze him to the spot.

“Um,” he said. “Bruce.”

“What?” Bruce asked, a bit alarmed already. He looked up at Clint, then back down at the map. “Oh.”

They stayed quiet for a little while.

“It's a circle, isn't it?” Clint asked eventually. “Definitely looks like a circle to me.”

“I think that wouldn't be too bold of an assumption,” Bruce murmured.

Clint sat cross-legged next to him and put the mugs down, still staring at the block of red buildings in the middle of Bedford-Stuyvesant. A pair of them remained unsullied, but they should probably be counted as lost, too. The Tracksuits had taken over the whole neighborhood within a few months.

“Aw, man, they got Gino's Pizza too? I loved that place.”

“Your building,” Bruce said, tapping it. “It's almost in the middle. That's why they're so aggressive – you're too close to what's brewing, and you're already onto them.”

“More like they're onto me,” Clint muttered, but Bruce had a point.

So the Tracksuits – or their employers – were definitely up to something, and they didn't want anybody near it. Well, that was a relief. At least, Clint had a target now.

“There must be something here,” Clint mumbled, pointing at the block in the middle. “Knowing them, it's probably a giant casino, or a drug plant – hell, it could even be a brothel for all I know. Something they want to keep hidden. But I can't do anything until I find out what exactly.”

“Maybe you should just... call the police,” Bruce said. “I know this doesn't exactly count as solid evidence, but they'd listen to an Avenger.”

Clint snorted. “Not me, they wouldn't.”

“Why not?”

“Well, my record isn't exactly pristine,” Clint winced. “And, just think about it – I stole a fucking building, I broke into another, I beat the shit out of the owners each time, I shot at them in a goddamn _car chase,_ I devastated their casino – oh, and I took their dog. All _they_ did was evict people like any landlord could. No, it's actually best when the cops mistake me for Iron Fist.”

Bruce blinked at him – then started laughing. It was a quiet little laugh, but still the first real one Clint had ever heard coming out of his mouth.

“What?” he said defensively, but a smile was tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Nothing,” the doctor giggled. “It's just – I thought I was the only Avenger with a growing record.”

 _“You've_ got a record?”

Of course, there had been pursuits against Banner as a result of the Hulk's actions, but that was bygones now; the Avengers Initiative had wiped its members' slates clean. Clint hadn't been long to unclean his own, but he never imagined Bruce could be in the same case.

The scientist’s smile vanished like a blown candle, as though he realized he'd made a mistake. He took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt. “Well,” he mumbled awkwardly, “the, uh, the charges are frozen for now. But SHIELD gives me a report after each battle. Friendly reminder.”

Clint stared at him.

Suddenly, he remembered Banner's similarly downcast eyes in the debriefing room. What he'd said then, in a defeated voice. _Assessing damage._

His breath caught in understanding. He'd often wondered what had kept Bruce around even though New York obviously wasn't the best place for him. Now he knew; neither nostalgia, nor wishful thinking, nor sense of duty – but blackmail, pure and simple.

It was common knowledge that Banner had been under a restriction order from the United States until the Initiative; SHIELD had then allowed him to come home – only so they could _trap_ him here. If they kept charging him every time the Hulk broke something, his record must be _very_ long indeed; and they must have been using that threat to keep him submitting to their whims. _Step out of line and we'll make it rain._ Something like that.

No wonder Banner had commitment problems. Hard to invest in the future with _that_ kind of Damocles Sword looming over your head.

“That's so – so _unfair_ _!”_ Clint protested, forgetting entirely about the map. “Nobody else has to answer for this shit! Do you know how many cars _I've_ blown up in battle? And what about Stark? The damage _he_ caused even before – ”

“It's not just about cars,” Bruce said in such a low voice Clint barely heard him.

At first he didn't understand. He just stared at Bruce, waiting for an explanation that didn't come.

But then he did get it – and wished he hadn't. No. That was just – _no._ Was SHIELD actually adding the _civilian casualties_ to Banner's record?

“Clint,” Bruce mumbled tiredly. “Let's just go back to the map, okay?”

“But you – ”

 _“Please_.”

He sounded so desperate, so awfully weary all of a sudden, that Clint's stomach churned again. Fuck, he'd never wanted to make Bruce beg – way to handle this shit, Barton. He felt completely useless; he wished he'd been able to _do_ something, anything, but the scientist was sitting with his back very straight and a stubborn look on his face. He didn't want Clint's pity.

“Hey,” Clint began softly.

He wasn't sure whether he was still trying to press the issue – and when Bruce tensed like a trapped animal, he knew he wouldn't. Couldn't.

“...your tea's getting cold,” he only mumbled.

Bruce's shoulders relaxed minutely. He picked up his mug and drank it, even though it was still steaming – because Clint had said it was cooling down and Bruce would obviously rather roll with it and burn his tongue than pick up their conversation.

Clint leaned back against the couch and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He probably should have said something else, anything to break the heavy silence; but moving on to another subject felt wrong. Disrespectful somehow. If Bruce didn't want him to talk about this, then he wouldn't talk about anything. He knew the doctor heard his silence for what it was. Clint expected him to break it at any moment, but it didn't happen.

And for the third time since they'd met, words were unnecessary; each of them could hear the turmoil in the other's head well enough. It started to feel almost unbearably intimate, this shared silence. But they still weren't saying anything as darkness rose outside.

 

*

 

“Clint.”

Someone was shaking his shoulder. Clint realized he'd fallen asleep; the sky outside was pitch black. Bruce shook him again. He'd stayed ? He smelled like soap.

Had he done the _dishes?_

“Clint, your _pager.”_

Clint opened one eye and stared down at the orders scrolling on the small screen.

“Oh, shit,” he mumbled, and got up.

It only took him minutes to get ready. When he walked out of his room, he was surprised to find Bruce still there – and zipping up his leather jacket.

“You're coming?”

“Obviously.” Bruce folded his glasses and carefully put them on Clint's coffee table. “It said Code Red, didn't it?”

“So?”

The doctor didn't look up. “So it means I have to be there.”

 _Have_ to.

How fucked-up was _that_ – but before Clint could express his righteous indignation, Banner had fled. Clint only had time to sling his quiver on before following him. “No, the roof,” he said. “They're picking me up in three minutes.”

Bruce nodded and went up without a word.

“Aren't you worried they'll ask what you're doing here?” Clint called.

“Why should they assume I'm living with you?” Bruce answered without turning, climbing up the stairs.

Clint stayed there with his mouth open for a few seconds, then hurried after him.

“Hey – you said you're required to be there, but how do they expect you to _know_ about the Assemble call? You don't have a pager.”

Bruce didn't answer and opened the door leading to the roof; freezing air burst inside like a slap on Clint's face. The moonlit cement looked like a field of pure, unsullied snow. Clint almost expected Grills to be there, but it was either too cold or too late for a ritual barbecue.

“There are other ways,” Bruce eventually answered. “Usually the news – Code Reds aren't hard to miss.”

“This isn't right,” Clint blurted. _“Mandatory_ calls. I mean – the rest of us all have a choice.”

“I do have a choice,” Bruce said lightly.

Yeah, of course he had. After all, he was the goddamn Hulk. Who could stop him from doing what he wanted? Still – what bound him didn't boil down to moral obligation only. There was guilt and despair and penance thrown in the mix, and it left a disgusting taste on Clint's lips as though a cockroach had run over his mouth.

“Well, why not have a pager then?” he asked. “Since you're _choosing_ to help anyway.”

Bruce took a deep breath and looked down, plunging his hands in his pockets. “Spiderman doesn't have one either.”

“Because he doesn't want a tracker.”

 _“I_ don't want a tracker,” Bruce admitted. “Alright?”

The pagers were rigged with GPS for the safety of their bearers, of course. Bruce was so caged already that Clint could see how he'd want to cling to what little slivers of freedom he could still preserve. But without a pager, he would always end up late on the battlefield; it was more than likely that SHIELD then blamed and charged him also for the damage happening _without_ him being there.

Clint had always known Fury to be a scheming asshole, but not to this extent. The one-eyed bastard could almost teach Loki a thing or two. It was brilliant, in a sense: he'd built the perfect prison for the uncontrollable asset that was the Hulk. The material damage was one thing – not to mention Banner got even further into debt every time he Hulked out to repay it – but the _guilt_ was his true weapon here. Letting Banner know exactly how many people he'd killed and how. Now _this,_ this was true genius. Well done, SHIELD. Really fucking impressive.

Clint swallowed down his nausea and said, “But if you _don't_ want them to track you, doesn't it mean you still hope for – ”

“For God's sake, let it _GO!”_ Bruce suddenly shouted.

He turned around at him. “I said I didn't want to _talk_ about it!”

He was really angry, his eyes wide and strangely hazel instead of brown, but Clint couldn't bring himself to be scared – that would be adding insult to the injury. Instead he said, “You're telling me all this. I'm SHIELD too, you know.”

Bruce stared at him for a breathless second, then shook his head with a scoff.

“I want to help,” Clint said.

The scientist resolutely turned his back to him. “You can't help me, Clint. You can't even help yourself.”

That left Clint utterly speechless.

Before he could fully register the blow, a Quinjet appeared above their heads with a great whooshing sound. Its belly opened seconds after it landed, and Bruce climbed inside without a word. Clint followed a few steps behind; Jessica was waiting for him at the door. Her eyes were wide and blank because of her mask. Her kiss, tasteless. She saw he wasn't responding and didn't insist, but didn't follow him either.

There was a lot of other superheroes here, Iron Man, Mockingbird, Captain America, Wolverine, Spiderman. This looked really bad, and Clint didn't even know what that specific Code Red was standing _for_ exactly; but instead of asking someone for a briefing, all he could do was stare at Banner's back until the scientist squeezed itself between two of his teammates and vanished from sight, like a dull moth in a crowd of dragonflies.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading ! Tell me, what did you think ? :)


	9. Closer

 

 

 

 

“ _Barton.”_

Clint blinked up. Maria Hill was standing in front of him, raising her eyebrows. Obviously, she'd been calling him several times. Probably wanted to brief him. The Quinjet hummed and purred beneath their feet as it took off; Hill just shifted her weight in a lithe movement, then crossed her arms.

“Uh – sorry,” Clint said, cracking his neck. “Still half-asleep.”

“Glad to see _some_ of us are relaxed,” she answered in an icy tone. “Come with me.”

He followed her to the back of the ship, absent-mindedly taking in her shorn black hair and stiff shoulder line. Wondering what she wanted with him, he couldn't help but noticing her eyes as she dialed a code on the wall. Hill was Fury's second in command. She must know about Banner's contract.

Clint thought of the scientist turning his back to him on the roof; he winced and shook his head. He had to clear his mind. He was on a mission.

“Here.”

Hill had opened an alcove in the wall; puffs of white smoke came out of it and curled heavily on the floor, like in that science class experiment which was about the only thing Clint remembered from school. It contained three silver, smooth-lined quivers. They appeared to be made of glass and stainless steel, or something equally heavy. Hill pulled out the first one and put it on the ground with a dull _clunk._

“I already have gear,” Clint said hesitantly.

“Those are gamma-dampening arrows,” she said. “Souvenir from the Hulkbusters team.”

“What? Why would I – ”

“I am briefing you _at the moment,_ Barton,” she snapped.

She took out the second quiver and reached for the third. They were tightly lidded, like waste containers.

“Turns out Forest Hills wasn't an isolated case. Freak of the week found an ants' nest in his garden and it gave him ideas.”

“More _ants?”_ Clint said, horrified.

“Yes, except these ones have been pumped up with gamma rays instead of a mere growth enhancer. Thankfully, they're outside town, but our emergency containment measures won't last.”

She dropped the third quiver directly into Clint's arms; he stared at her, then down at it.

“Uh – how come we had anti-radioactive ants arrows at hand?”

“Don't be stupid. Those were for Banner.” She glanced at her watch, then said, “Fifteen minutes,” before disappearing towards the front of the aircraft.

Left alone, Clint watched her go with an intense frustration he couldn't explain to himself.

After all, everyone had always agreed that Banner was a liability at best and a threat at worst. Well, except for Tony Stark, but no matter how you chose to look at it, the billionaire had still kicked the doctor out of the Tower. Hell, Banner _himself_ couldn't have agreed more – his behavior on the roof earlier was enough of a reminder. And Clint was no different. He remembered thinking of the glass cage as a reasonable and logical precaution. And it was only logical and reasonable to carry around a bomb disposal when you also carried a bomb.

So why was he cringing now?

 _“On site in ten,”_ Hill's voice announced through the coms.

He could have sworn this was intended just for him. Biting back a curse, he unstrapped his regular quivers and hooked his control gloves to the steel ones. He was just finishing shrugging them on when the Quinjet landed.

“Alright, showtime,” Steve said out loud. “Iron Man, give Hawkeye a lift, then join Spider-Woman in covering us from the air. Mockingbird, Wolverine, you watch each other's backs on the field. Spiderman, you're with me.”

“You didn't even say _Assemble,”_ the web-slinger protested.

The belly of the aircraft opened; Clint reached out and gripped Tony Stark's armored forearm. Just before he was taken away, he heard Steve say, “Doctor – you know the drill.”

An impulse made him turn to look back but before he could even see anything, there was a great whooshing that left nothing around him but the night sky.

 

*

 

_“Hawkeye?”_

“Yeah,” he said tiredly, raising two fingers to his earpiece. “It's over.”

_“Is that a positive?”_

_“Yes,_ Cap. Can we all go home and watch _Dog Cops_ now?”

Clint might have sounded a bit whiny just now, but at this point he didn't give a shit. He sat heavily on the edge of the roof. At least he hadn't blacked out mid-battle this time, but frankly, he didn't have enough energy left to celebrate even mentally. Just. Fucking _drained._

The sun had come up hours ago, shedding light on an utter wasteland. The gamma rays had turned the ants into stone-like tanks; Clint's dampening arrows had only weakened them enough for Tony's beams and Logan's claws to pierce their thick gray shells. None of them thought they'd ever deal with a battle longer, more exhausting than Manhattan, but there you had it. The ground had been ploughed by insect legs and claws until it was hardly recognizable with deep trenches and smoking craters. Seriously, Steve Rogers must be having war flashbacks. The giant, jointed corpses were a real nightmare; most of them were on their back, looking like armored lobsters from the paleolithic era, mandibles still twitching and sporadically clenching on nothing.

 _“We just got Banner back,”_ Iron Man signaled.

 _“Well, that's our cue,”_ Steve admitted. _“Great job, everyone. We did it.”_

 _“Until the next batch,”_ Logan growled, and Clint couldn't disagree with his foul mood. How many ants were there in an ants' nest ? More than the few dozen they'd taken out today, that was for sure.

 _“Hey Hawk, need a lift?”_ Tony asked.

How could they all sound so energetic? Clint's hand weighed a ton as he lifted it to his earpiece. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Thanks.”

He tried to get up, but his legs gave out and he fell on all fours. _That_ was when he really started to worry. The world was blurring at the edges. He felt so old. How old was he? Couldn't remember.

The whine of Tony's repulsors made him stir a little.

“Hey, dude,” he mumbled. “'M feeling... like shit.”

 _“Man down,”_ Tony said in an urgent voice.

Aw, no. There was no need to be so dramatic. Clint hadn't managed to stand his ground for nearly ten hours only to collapse _now._ He pushed his hands against the roof.

“Barton, you shouldn't move.”

“I'm _fine,”_ he said. “I'm just...”

His voice trailed off and the word was put on hold. He frowned, feeling spaced out. What was he trying to say just now?

Oh, come on. He hated when that happened – he struggled to find the right word, but words didn't make _sense,_ all of them were the same, all the same blumbering of vowels and... stuff... Just random sounds put together. Funny how he never noticed that before. How could anyone ever understand shit, that was beyond him.

Wasn't he trying to say something though? He tried hard to focus. Hey, he could walk. Seriously. No need to... Why wasn't he walking? No ground under his feet. Where was everyone? Where was every _thing?_ Glitch in the Matrix. Heh, Matrix. That was a really _good_ movie... Movie. Mo-vie mo- _vie_ _mo_ -vie – man, words were _weird._ If you repeated them often enough, they just... just... hey, who was in charge of that anyway? Why did one syllable meant one thing and not the other? The other. The other _what ?_ The other... _something..._ Seriously, he _could_ walk, why were things so horizontal all of a sudden – he just. He _just..._

 _..._ what was he trying to say?

“ _Geiger counter, Hill! Does that ring any goddamn bells? Didn't you scan the zone_ before _sending them out there?”_

Wow, blinking was hard. He tried to focus. There was a naked guy with curly hair... wrapped in a blanket and yelling at people. That was funny. Right? Wasn't it supposed to be funny? In doubt, he didn't laugh.

“ _No, agent, I am perfectly calm. It's you – for Christ's sake, what part of 'radioactive' don't you understand?”_

Dude, _every_ part. Four-syllable word? Might as well be speaking Klingon. But why was this guy naked? This wasn't a place to be... what was this place anyway?

“ _I don't care about how low the gamma levels were. Everyone else here should get tested for exposure right now.”_

He blinked again and finally understood he was lying down on a cot. The curly-haired guy was putting on pants and a purple shirt. Hey, Clint knew that shirt. And he knew that guy. Wasn't the guy his? Or rather the shirt? He was pretty sure there was a connection here, somewhere.

_“Agent Barton?”_

Oh hey, that was _his_ name. He remembered! He tried to answer something, but his tongue felt like a big dry sock.

 _“Clint?”_ the guy said hesitantly, in a much lower voice, like he didn't want people to hear.

Also his name. How many names _did_ he have? He blinked hazily again and shifted his arm. Sharp pain in the crook of his elbow. He was hooked to something.

 _“Don't move. I'm injecting_ you with a gamma dampener.”

Ow – louder all of a sudden. Dampener? Yet everything was growing clearer. Clint let out a groan, then closed his eyes when the lights started dazzling him.

“Can you hear me?”

His voice had lost that weird-ass echo. Other sounds were making their way into Clint's ears. A low rumbling, like engines under him. Someone else was speaking. Name? He should have remembered their names.

“How is he, doc?”

“He's got radiation poisoning, what do you think?” Banner snapped.

Banner. _Bruce._ Yes. Clint reopened his eyes. _Steve._ He blinked and repeated in his mind about what the doctor had just said. Ra-di-a-tion... that was a long word. Take a deep breath. Ra-di-a-tion poi-son...

Oh, shit.

“Aw, man,” he slurred. “That's... _bad,_ right?”

Both men turned towards him with concerned looks. Steve said something – probably welcoming him back – but Clint heard none of it, because Bruce moved his hand in a halting, hesitant movement, and put it on his shoulder.

And suddenly, everything became significantly clearer and louder, like Clint had taken off smudged glasses and thick earplugs. He blinked with shock.

“Hey – look at his vitals,” Steve said, sounding surprised.

“Must be the dampener kicking in,” Bruce mumbled. “He'll be fine, Cap, we treated it soon enough. You should go check on the others.”

Steve nodded, then turned away. The scientist let go of Clint to run his fingers through his curly hair; everything reverted back to blurry and incoherent and nauseating, until Bruce's hand settled back on Clint's shoulder and he could instantly breathe better.

“How... do you do that,” Clint slurred.

“I've just swallowed a gamma-irradiated monster back down,” Bruce murmured. “I'm still sucking up radiation around me.”

Clint gave him a crooked smile.

“Hmm,” he let out. “Wizard.”

Bruce's lips quirked minutely. “Please don't tell anyone.”

He looked utterly exhausted. Two incidents in less than forty-eight hours. His eyelids seemed heavier than Clint's felt, and there were big gray bags under his eyes.

“Should sleep,” Clint mumbled.

“Well, the other cots are occupied,” Banner said with a wince, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. “Stark and Mockingbird are being treated too, just in case.”

Clint felt nauseous again. _Just in case._ He was the only one who'd collapsed. Made sense – Logan was virtually immortal, the Spiders were immune, Steve and Mockingbird had the serum and Stark had the armor... Only him, Barton. Earth's regular hero.

“So the radioactive ants were _radioactive,”_ he muttered.

“Yes.”

“I got ant radiation poisoning.”

“Yes.”

“Did you really yell at Hill or did I dream it up?”

Bruce looked away with a little smile.

“It wasn't really her fault,” he said. “Living things aren't supposed to be radioactive as well. It throws their decay in a loop, and since the half-life is going into flux, it makes it pretty hard to measure.”

“Of course,” Clint rasped.

Even his normal state, he wouldn't have understood shit to what Banner had just said.

“Hey – if you're not going to lie down... can you go give Jess a hug?”

The doctor gaped at him. “What?”

“Hold her,” he insisted. “Don't want her to be sick.”

“Oh!” Bruce said in understanding. “Oh – no, don't worry. She's fine.”

He glanced away again. “Besides, I don't really do hugs.”

Clint frowned, feeling like he had proof against that, but his traitorous brain refused to provide it. He sighed, then curled his knees up to his chest, making room on the cot.

“At least sit down,” he mumbled.

“Clint – ”

“Don't fuck with Barton in medical,” he grumbled in his pillow. “SHIELD's golden rule.”

Bruce huffed something which was too weak to be called a laugh; he pulled back, but the next second, the cot dipped under his weight. Clint felt the scientist's hand settle back on his forearm as Bruce leaned back against the wall with a sigh. Truth be told, the scientist's contact had already stopped affecting him. But he didn't say anything.

A few minutes passed, engines buzzing. Bruce's hand never moved on Clint's arm, like it had died the moment he'd put it there. He really didn't do physical contact. Or maybe he was just _really_ exhausted. Clint was getting better by the second – it was like throwing up after indigestion; he probably could have moved now, but he was too comfortable to sit up and play it tough. He was dozing off when Bruce spoke again, in a low voice.

“I'm sorry.”

It took Clint a good minute to understand that the scientist was talking about what he had said on the roof.

“Not now,” he groaned.

Banner sounded a bit thrown. “What?”

“We're still on a mission,” Clint muttered. “So we do this later. Home and after a few pots of coffee. Or _never –_ even better.”

Bruce was about to answer when a shock under them warned that the aircraft had landed. Jessica appeared at the door and raised her eyebrows at them. Bruce drew back his hand and stood up, before nodding at her.

“He'll be fine,” he said quickly, then vanished out the door.

Jessica sat on the edge of the bed and cupped Clint's cheek. He closed his eyes and tried to smile, grabbing her wrist to slowly rub the inside with his thumb.

“One day, Jess,” he said. “One day I'll finish a goddamn battle on my two feet.”

She gave him a half-smile but then kissed him, and it was much better than the dry embrace they'd exchanged before the battle.

“Come on,” she said softly. “We're at the mansion. But Hill wants a word first.”

Clint held back what would have been a very immature whine, then sat up like the grown adult and kick-ass agent he was. Oh, who was he kidding, he just wanted to sleep. He wasn't sick anymore, but he still felt about as tired as Banner had looked.

He followed Jessica to the back of the aircraft. Hill was waiting for them; anyone else would have been fidgety, but she was as calm as ever.

“First of all, I owe you an apology,” she said briskly. “I should have been able to guarantee your safety as well.”

She sounded sincerely sorry in her own way, but it didn't change the fact that if not for Clint, her handling of the situation wouldn't have been called into question.

Her black eyes narrowed a little. “Second of all, here's a piece of advice. Stay away from Banner.”

Clint blinked a bit too rapidly. “Sorry?”

“I don't know why he was with you and I don't care,” she said. “But you'd better not get involved with him. For your own safety. Understood?”

Yeah, he knew. His shoulder was still sore from carrying the heavier quivers. He briefly wondered what was in SHIELD's records; how many people Banner had killed since Manhattan. And before that.

He gave her a brief nod. She nodded back, then said, “Well then. Anything else to report?

“Yeah,” he said slowly.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “My, uh, my pager is malfunctioning.”

“Oh. Take mine,” she said, unclasping it from her belt. “I'm going back to the base anyway, I'll get another one.” Her features softened a little. “Now get some rest, Barton.”

She turned away as the belly of the aircraft opened with a great whooshing sound. They were indeed on the landing pad of the mansion which was a few blocks from Clint's building. Jessica had kept quiet during the whole conversation, but as soon as Hill left, she turned to him.

“You're involved with _Banner?”_

Clint shook his head. “Nothing important.”

“Clint,” she said, dragging him away from their teammates now exiting the Quinjet. “Seriously. Is something wrong?”

He looked at her for some time. He'd always been reluctant to share what was on his mind, even with his... friend... girl..., but what Hill had just told him had woken up his headache. Perhaps another opinion would help.

“Well,” he said. “Um. It's just something on my mind – have you ever caused... you know, casualties? On the field, I mean.”

“What ?” she frowned.

Whatever she'd been expecting, this obviously wasn't it.

“Where did that come fr – oh my God.” Her eyes widened. “You _killed_ someone?”

“No!” he protested. “I'm just asking – forget it. Guess it's too personal anyway.”

“Clint, I don't...”

“No, seriously, just – let it go. Please. S'nothing.”

She nodded, but she still didn't look very reassured. He wished he could have found something to say, but all he wanted at this point was go home and sleep.

“Are you sleeping at the mansion?” she asked.

He sighed inwardly, then shook his head again. “...Yeah,” he said, helplessly. “If you want. But I'm – I'm exhausted, Jess.”

“It's alright,” she said. “We can just sleep.”

“Okay,” he mumbled.

He looked around, but they were the last ones inside. Banner must have gone back home. Or maybe left again.

“Okay,” he repeated, and followed her out.

 

*

 

When he woke up, the red light of dusk was flowing through the windows. He had slept all day long. He remembered falling asleep next to Jessica; he wasn't opposed to cuddling, but he just didn't sleep well with someone wrapped around him, so they'd just drifted off side by side, like teammates, or friends, or complete strangers. She was gone now; he heard voices and laughter coming from downstairs.

He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his temples. He was still drowsy, but he didn't quite feel absurdly worn out like before. He had to go home and get to work.

He got out of bed and put his shoes, jacket and pants back on. He frowned at the sight of Hill's pager, then remembered and put it in his pocket. He was shrugging his jacket on when the door opened; he stiffened and spun round – and felt strangely relieved when he realized it was only Natasha.

“I've heard you were irradiated to death,” she said, not sounding overly disturbed by the eventuality.

“Didn't give me any super-powers,” Clint answered. “But thanks for the heartfelt mourning.”

“What have you done to Jessica?”

“Nothing.”

“Precisely.”

“Now don't start,” he grumbled.

He grabbed his quiver and turned to leave.

“There's a guy in a tracksuit waiting across the street,” she said.

He froze.

“Know anything about that?” she went on.

Clint took a deep breath, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. He guessed he should be thankful he'd gotten more than five hours straight of sleep.

“If you need a hand,” she offered casually.

Clint swallowed audibly, then shook his head. “No. I'll deal with it. Say bye to Jess for me?”

“Certainly not,” she said with a little snort.

He hurtled down the stairs, strode across the hall without even looking at the main room from which came the laughs and the music, and opened the front door.

It was freezing outside; a thin rain was beginning to fall, thick clouds masking the face of the setting sun. The Tracksuit was waiting, leaning against the wall on the other side of the street, gray pants and gray hoodie with the gray hood pulled down over his face.

Clint crossed the street and stopped right before him. The guy didn't move, keeping his head down.

Clint reached down his pocket. “I've got something for you.”

He pulled out Hill's pager and held it out. “I told them mine was broken. Just remove the tracker chip.”

For a second, nothing moved. Then Banner pulled his hood up a little, and took the pager with a lop-sided smile.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Elementary, you're not garish enough.”

The icy rain was strengthening, drumming on the asphalt.

“It's not Christmas yet,” Bruce said, turning the pager in his hands.

Clint shrugged. “Merry November.”

Bruce quirked a smile for just one second. There was an awkward pause during which the rain intensified again, drenching Clint's hair and trickling down his neck. The doctor eventually pocketed the pager and kept his hands deep inside his hoodie.

“Let me deal with SHIELD,” he said, his voice barely audible over the rain. “That's all I'm asking.”

Clint's hand clenched on the strap of his backpack. Whatever Bruce said, he couldn't help thinking that the way Fury handled things was deeply wrong. Then again, both Kate and Jessica had offered _Clint_ their help – even Natasha, just now – and he'd brushed them off, hadn't he? So maybe he should accept that Bruce wanted to keep doing this, even though it meant he was charged with dozens of murders each time. After all, he had lived with the Hulk for almost a decade now. Maybe he had found a way to cope; maybe he _needed_ to know who had died to be at peace with himself. Maybe SHIELD was actually _helping_ him.

Clint didn't really buy that, but how could a hitman raised by carnies know better than a razor-sharp nuclear scientist? If Banner wanted to keep his problems to himself, Clint had no right to interfere.

“Okay,” he said softly.

The doctor nodded, once. They waited in the rain for another second.

“Alright, then,” Bruce said, shaking himself up. “Now let's get to work.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please, let me know what you thought ; I'm running on comment-made fuel. :)


	10. First date

 

 

 

 

 

“So who are those guys?” Bruce breathed as they walked down the street.

“What do you mean?”

It was still raining; the scientist had kept his hood up, but it wasn't waterproof so it wasn't much of a help. He looked rather odd in a tracksuit. Above their heads, the night was obscured with dark, heavy clouds. A lone streetlight cast a sickly orangey glow upon the gleaming asphalt. Clint had shoved his quiver down his backpack; in his dark clothes, he passed unnoticed enough.

“I mean,” the doctor mumbled, “that I thought they were a normal mafia. Stealing laptops and evicting people for money.”

“Sounds about right.”

“But they came after _you._ Normal guys would've stayed the _hell_ away from an Avenger. Hardly the same league.”

Clint scoffed. “Yeah, but I'm hardly an Avenger.”

Bruce honest-to-God rolled his eyes.“Wonder what that makes of _me,_ then.”

Clint raised his eyebrows. “Dude, you're the Hulk.”

“Well, it didn't stop them from stealing my laptop,” Bruce mumbled.

He stopped and wiped his drenched curls off his forehead to look up at a tall, dark building. “This must be it.”

Clint's hands clenched inside his pockets. He did a quick scan of their surroundings. Emergency stairs were crisscrossing the façade of the building, which was good – but something told him they wouldn't be of use this time.

Main hint – the windows weren't sealed. Just... dark. There was no one inside. Clint looked around and quickly spotted it: a round manhole cover, which had been moved one time too many.

“The whole building's a decoy,” he muttered. “Man, this is really bad.”

Underground bases were _never_ good, no matter how shitty. He had seriously hoped for a giant hidden illegal casino or something. But this mute, blind building scared him more than a whole warehouse of angry Russians. Bruce was right; there must be more to these guys than just regular mobsters.

_Great._

“So – I guess I'll just keep watch then,” the doctor murmured.

Clint glanced at him.

Banner shrugged and muttered, “You wouldn't want me in cramped sewers.”

“Nice try,” Clint told him. “You're coming.”

Bruce blinked at him. It made him look a bit less like the weary, damaged man he was, and a bit more like the owlish young scientist he must have been once.

“Are you... sure that's a good idea?” he said.

And yeah, of course he would ask that – the first time, Clint wouldn't even let him inside a building. Times changed, though, didn't they?

Times changed.

“Sure,” Clint grinned. “A long-range sniper and a green rage monster in the sewers. What could possibly happen?”

 

*

 

Clint landed in a few inches of dark, stinking water.

“Ugh,” he mumbled, before calling, “Clear.”

Coming down the ladder, Bruce didn't seem overly disturbed by the stench. Clint had a feeling the good doctor had had more than his share of dirty places. He wasn't sure Stark or Richards would have been this unconcerned.

“Come here often?” he asked.

Bruce stared at him for a second before understanding it was a joke. Maybe he _did_ come here often; after all, Clint didn't know where he'd lived before David the Wizard moved in. As it was, Bruce just shook his head with a half-smile, then said, “We should get moving.”

“Yep.”

“We're just here to watch, though. Right?”

“Depends on what we find. C'mon.”

Dark red lights were blinking on the ceiling; Clint had a flashlight, but he wasn't stupid enough to turn it on. Bruce didn't seem overly unsettled by the almost complete darkness, though, and he made no sound as he moved through the lukewarm, dirty water. It was really as though taking a stroll in the sewers was a morning ritual of his.

“I'm sure you could have thought of a better way to spend your week-end,” Clint mumbled.

He wasn't sure, but he thought Bruce was smiling in the dark.

“I've had worse Saturdays.”

“Yeah – I mean, I guess – but still. You're here, literally ankle-deep in shit, and for... what?”

“I don't know,” Bruce said calmly. “Why are _you_ here?”

Their whispers were barely audible over the quiet splashing of the waters.

“Gotta be,” Clint said. “Got to protect my place.”

“Well, me too,” he mumbled.

 _That_ got Clint's attention. He was about to answer when Bruce's hand grabbed his arm and squeezed so hard he thought the scientist had stepped on a shard of broken glass or something; instead of crying out, he took a look around and froze.

There was a thin silver pipe floating in the water – except it wasn't a pipe, but a ray of light seeping through a door left ajar. It blinked once; someone had passed in front of the light source on the other side of the door. Clint held his breath and closed his eyes. _One heartbeat. Two. Three._ He heard nothing.

They couldn't stay here, though. If the door was left open, it meant someone was about to go in or out, very soon, and they were in the way. He took a deep breath. To walk in –

He froze again, eyes still closed, and took another breath. _Smoke._ He turned towards Bruce and tapped his nose. “Smell that?” he mouthed.

The doctor looked puzzled. The smell was gone like it had come; that meant now or never. Clint raised a finger. _One minute._ He pointed at the door. _And then you go in._ Bruce's eyes widened – but before he could protest, Clint had twisted out of his grasp and kicked the door open.

He didn't take in his surroundings except to notice that there was only one other door – and a guy sitting on a few large, quarried rocks, smoking a cigarette just like Clint had thought. _Perfect._ The Tracksuit opened his mouth to yell something but the smoke he had just swallowed threw him in a coughing fit. Clint took his chance and threw his backpack right in his face, then crossed the room in three strides and took him out with a hard punch. The guy fell against the wall; Clint caught him under the arms to let him slide down without a sound. Straightening up, he exhaled in a brisk burst of breath and shrugged on his backpack again.

It hadn't even lasted a minute.

“My God,” Bruce murmured, coming in and pushing the door shut behind him. “Clint – what if they'd been ten in here?”

“Smell wasn't strong enough. Only one cigarette. Two, max.”

“But how did you know he wouldn't call for help?”

“I waited until he took a drag.” Clint shrugged. “Choked on the smoke.”

He glanced around. “Okay, so what do we have here?”

It mostly looked like a storage room. The floor was covered in slime and the empty shelves covered in dust. Clint walked towards the door and put his hand on the metal. He felt very faint vibrations under his fingertips. The rumble of a machine, deep in the sewers of New York.

“What's that?” Bruce muttered.

He was staring at a couple of wooden boxes which had been moved quite recently. He opened one, then frowned.

“Dirt,” he said. “Just... earth. What does it mean?”

“I don't think there's anything important here,” Clint said. “Seriously, that's probably just Kitty Litter.”

Bruce grabbed a small plastic bag in another box and filled it with a chunk of earth; he knotted it tightly shut and threw it to Clint, who raised his eyebrows but put it in his pocket. There was no time to argue over mistaking dirt for hard evidence. He took out his quiver and snapped his bow open.

“Okay, let's go,” he said. “And it's gonna be the real deal from now on, so we can't stay together. Invading Secret Bases 101.”

“I should go first,” Bruce said. “It's better if you got my back than the other way around.”.

It did make sense. Banner was both less frail and more likely not to be known by whoever they'd find; tank and spy all in one. And after all, Clint _was_ a long-range sniper ; the front line just wasn't his gig.

“Yeah, you're right,” he said. “Go ahead, then.”

If Bruce's look was anything to go by, he had expected an argument of some sort. His reasoning was only logical, though.

“Wait, just – _this – ”_ Clint clicked his tongue – “means 'all clear'. Works pretty well in echoing rooms like these. Every minute or I'll know you're in trouble; twice if you're coming back. Okay?”

“Uh – okay,” Bruce nodded, still looking a bit baffled. He seemed to gather himself together and repeated, “Okay.”

Without further ado, he turned and opened the door – another good move: nothing more suspicious than a doorknob slowly, slowly turning. He disappeared in the corridor and Clint waited. After sixty long seconds, he heard a distant _click_ ; he answered with a _click_ of his own, then slid into the dark hallway.

The deep vibration was here every time he let his hand trail against the wall. Apart from Bruce clicking his tongue at regular intervals, like a dolphin's sonar, everything was silent. It could have easily passed for drops of water falling on the cement. Clint kept walking in the strangely narrow corridor, passing closed door after closed door. No point in trying to open them.

Then Bruce sent him three clicks. Clint frowned, then sent him twice _– I'm coming –_ and ran up the hallway. It took him almost an entire minute to find him; he'd been walking faster than Clint thought. He was waiting behind an ajar door.

 _“Found something?”_ Clint mouthed.

 _“Careful,”_ Bruce answered in the same way. _“Look.”_

Clint peeked through the slit. Behind the door was a cave-like room containing vials of bright blue, yellow, and green liquids bubbling all over the place, casting an eerie glow on the stone. There was a woman standing in the corner, staring absently at her phone.

She was wearing a golden mask.

 _“Shit,”_ Clint hissed.

He dragged Bruce away from the door and whispered in his ear, “That's Madame Masque. Head of organized crime on the super-human scale. Me and Kate fought her in Madripoor once.”

Which was hyper classified information he had been trained never to disclose, by the way – even Natasha did not know. _Oops._ Bruce caught his arm and whispered, lips brushing his ear, “I think I've seen those vials before. In SHIELD's files on Tesseract related research.”

That name made Clint's blood curdle in his veins. Memories of the battle flashed through his head. The _size_ of it.

Suddenly, the Tracksuits were forgotten. This was bigger than what he had ever expected to find and he was dreadfully unprepared for something on this scale. He exchanged a look with Bruce, and yet again they found themselves reading the other's thoughts – _let's get the_ fuck _out of here._

“Go,” Clint whispered hurriedly. “I got your back. Go.”

Bruce promptly spun on his heels. Clint forced himself to wait until he'd disappeared round the corner – he had to make sure Masque hadn't heard them. He could have taken her out from here, but that was a chance he wasn't willing to take. Not when there was Bruce with him; who knew what kind of alarms he could set off. Masque was no Loki, but she was paranoid enough for Clint not to risk it. Just – _a calm and orderly retreat just like in the manual._ He breathed in and swallowed silently.It was so quiet. Masque wasn't doing anything, just staring at her phone like she willed it to ring. How the hell had she gotten back from Madripoor anyway? Wasn't she under arrest or something after the debacle over there?

Then it clicked in Clint's mind. Quiet. Quiet. _Quiet?_

His breath caught. Despite Masque being literally at spitting range, he clicked his tongue, once. Then waited. And waited.

No answer.

_Oh fuck._

He was running up the corridor before his brain had even begun to compute. His steps were slapping against the cement and echoing around him but if Bruce had been caught, there was no point in being discreet. Suddenly, Clint's jokes about being trapped underground with the Hulk weren't all that funny anymore.

“Bruce!” he gasped, turning round the corner.

And Bruce was there – right _there,_ in the middle of the corridor, their way out only a minute away, and he was perfectly fine, if a bit gobsmacked by Clint's irruption.

“Clint? What – ”

It was right then that the nearest door banged open and half a dozen Tracksuits came running out with their guns ready. Clint cursed and took a few steps back, drawing his bow. Nice job breaking your own cover, Barton. Oh, this looked _badder_ by the second.

“The fuck are _you,_ bro?” they asked menacingly.

Oh good, these ones didn't know him.

“The bow, bro. S'the Avenger, bro.”

Well, shit.

“Look – ” Bruce began, raising his hands, but Clint cut him off, “Don't,” he hissed between his teeth. “Can't talk with them. Trust me, I tried.”

Seven guys. Seven guns. If things got messy, they couldn't shoot without risking friendly fire in such cramped corridors, though. Clint's only chance was to disarm them and run like hell before someone _else_ – namely, Madame Masque – realized that two Avengers were taking a casual stroll inside their base.

“Stop talking now, bro,” the ugliest one said. “No words. I keel you.”

Clint pressed his lips tight and drew his bow tighter. Next to him, the scientist was growing more and more nervous. But Clint had seen him fight off a transformation twice. If they stayed very careful, and with a healthy dose of luck, they could still walk out of here.

“Put the bow down, bro. No talking. Not being smart guy. Just _down.”_

Well, Clint had no intent to use it anyway. Besides, crouching down would give him good leverage to pounce on them. He hoped Bruce would be quick on his feet. Very slowly, he began to lower his weapon.

Banner breathed, “Clint – ”

The Tracksuit cocked his gun and shot Bruce in the face.

 

*

 

Time impossibly slowed down.

In the microsecond it took the bullet to hit Bruce, a dozen stupid thoughts managed to cross Clint's head.

_Third's time the charm, they say._

Banner had transformed only the day before. And he had already managed to hold back the Hulk twice. So maybe everything would be fine. Maybe the bullet would just graze him a little.

No such luck. Point blank. Between the eyes. Instant death.

And if you looked at it the other way around – Hulk had tried twice to get out and twice he'd been driven back.

_They say third's time the charm._

Nothing was fine.

Everything _sucked._

 

Clint had been on explosive battlefields more often than not, yet that single _bang_ was the most deafening thing he'd heard. He didn't even have time to scream. Bruce's head was propelled backwards and crimson blood splattered the white cement.

No –

Bruce's body convulsed on the floor; a noise of excruciating agony bubbled through his lips and burst out in an unearthly _growl._

_No –_

The Tracksuit frowned. “Hey bro, he still – ”

No no no no no no _no –_

Bruce exploded in the confined corridor and all of a sudden, he was not Bruce at all anymore. The massive shoulders cracked the cement ceiling, bursting out several pipes which let out gushes of dirty water. Two massive hands slammed against the walls and the Hulk _howled_ at them – just hollered like a mad animal, and maybe this was the most terrifying, maybe this was why people kept calling him a _monster_ – because he still _looked_ human, but that roar just now was something that could not possibly come out from a human being.

Clint heard the cocking of guns only a bit too late.

“No – don't _shoot – ”_

Yeah, actually, he didn't know why anybody in his line of work even bothered giving this useless order. Usually, it meant it was already too late. The bullets bounced off the Hulk who heaved up his shoulders and howled again, all but splitting the ceiling in half.

And _that_ was what saved them.

There must have been a bigger pipe up there – or maybe Hulk had just broken them all at once – whatever the reason, highly pressurized water hit the titan in the face and rendered him blind for a split second just before he could smash them.

The Tracksuits scrambled back in the corridor – but Clint, in what could easily pass as his most stupid decision up to date, rolled between the Hulk's legs to get behind him, in a vague attempt to drag him away from the base or at least get nearer to the only exit he knew. He hadn't taken into account the water which was now nearly four feet deep. He inhaled what felt like a gallon of dirty water, coughed it out and got up in a splash – and froze; Hulk had already turned towards him with a hideous scowl.

Clint just stayed there in fascinated horror, his heart hammering against his ribs. At this distance and in the narrow space, Hulk looked absolutely monstrous. This was nothing like seeing him smashing cars from the top of a building. He was there, he was close, he was radiating heat and power, and he was _furious._

What had Hill told him? _Stay away from Banner. Stay safe._

Clint would have laughed – but then a terrible shock chased the air out of his lungs and it became very hard to laugh, let alone speak, or think – or breathe.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. ^^ I am still incredibly thrilled to read all your comments! Thank you!


	11. Wayward

 

 

 

 

 

Aw, no, sirens.

Sirens were never good.

They were pounding in Clint's poor head, a stereo torture telling him to _get – uuup, get – uuup, get – uuup._ He winced and tried to take a deep breath, which only resulted in him coughing miserably until his stomach heaved and he found himself on all fours, throwing up an alarming amount of dirty water. Great, a stomach wash was all he needed in his life. His whole body convulsed again and he choked out a pained cry when he felt a belt of bruises around his chest – as though a giant fist had closed around him.

Something very _big_ snorted over him and Clint spun round – only to find the Hulk mere inches from him. Lying down and propped up on his elbows on the cement floor, Clint felt more vulnerable than ever. The Hulk just huffed in his face, though, and straightened up a little.

“...Hey,” Clint breathed, stupidly.

Hulk snorted again, a massive heap in the darkness, but didn't move. Clint did his best to inform his pounding heart that the big guy did not seem intent on smashing him just yet. Where were they? This looked like an empty floor in some kind of old building. Strobe lights were reflecting on the titan's glistening skin. Probably police cars down below.

Wait – where the hell _were_ they?

Clint crawled to the window and peered down. At first, he didn't recognize a thing – the wreckage made it nearly impossible. Chunks of concrete had rolled in the now quietly garbling water, like icebergs in a coffee-colored ocean. Cops were pacing the scene in knee-high rubber boots. A dozen of them had gathered around a big, jagged-edge hole in the ground, in which the brown waters poured back down; others were studying a certain manhole cover.

A lone tracksuit jacket was floating near the tire of a wailing civilian car.

And Clint finally understood. The Hulk had broken free from the sewers, only to leap in the nearest safe place he could think of – the deserted decoy building looming over the scene. The underground base must be flooded by now; the tunnels had collapsed, opening the sewers, and the whole neighborhood was either completely ruined or stinking like hell.

“Aw, man,” Clint breathed.

The Hulk moved behind him and he scrambled to his feet, an arm wrapped around his ribs to hold them in place – miraculously, they didn't feel cracked, but he was still pretty sure his skin had changed color. “Whoa – stay back. You're taking bone-crushing hugs _way_ too literally.”

“Not Hulk's _fault,”_ Hulk growled.

Okay – knowing that Hulk could speak and _hearing_ him speak were two very different things.

Clint suddenly felt tired. Like he would feel in the middle of a battle or with someone's blood on his hands. This wasn't just weariness, but a deep despondency. They had just leveled an entire _block,_ and now they were trapped in this building for the cops to pluck out. The stairs must be broken – or nonexistent – but that would only buy them so much time; already, ladders were being put against the building to reach the emergency stairs. Clint sighed and rubbed his face with both hands.

“Actually, if you want to smash me, go ahead,” he muttered. “Might just do me some good.”

“Hulk not smash _team,”_ Hulk snorted disdainfully, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Hulk help, but team _puny,_ so help is smash. Everything puny – so _everything_ is smash.”

Clint looked up at him, blinking, and the Hulk stared back.

Clint couldn't remember ever looking him in the eyes before – or talking to him – or standing this close to him, for that matter.

“Banner?” he murmured, squinting a little.

The Hulk growled at him. “Not _Banner!”_

Clint shrunk back, raising his hands. “Okay – okay – how should I call you then? Hulk? Everyone calls you Hulk.”

“Hulk,” was the snorted retort.

Clint took that as a yes. He inhaled deeply, trying to calm down, but it only filled his lungs with the stench of the sewers. Swallowing, he tasted something awful at the back of his throat – his empty stomach twisted again. Fuck, he would have to take a boatload of antibiotics as soon as possible if he ever made it home.

That was when he actually realized how _much_ water he had thrown up. He frowned, then slid a hand under his shirt to palpate the swollen bruises on his aching chest. The shape of giant fingers indeed. But not of a giant _fist._

Hulk had grabbed him – rendering him unconscious, yes; but then the pipes had burst out for good and the hideout had been flooded before entirely caving in. Yet Clint was fine – not even a cracked rib.

How could he not have a cracked rib after all this?

“You saved me,” he said slowly.

He looked up. The Hulk scowled at him.

“Smash,” he corrected.

“Yeah. _While_ saving me.”

Hulk snorted yet again and looked away. He had saved Tony Stark once, after all. But the circumstances were a lot different then – in the heat of the battle, with a clear line between humans and aliens. Plenty of other things to smash, no one blaming him for it, and a shiny armor falling from the sky with a friendly man inside. Stinking sewers and panicked, interchangeable humans weren't the same at all. Yet he had gotten only one of them out.

“Why, man?” Clint asked softly.

He let his hand drop down and mumbled, “I'm the one who put you under there after all.”

Hulk was staring at him, and once again, Clint felt Banner's name bubble behind his lips. It was the _eyes,_ these soul-searching eyes, so outlandish in that brutish face. Aliens and monsters and lasers were actually easy enough to handle – Clint just wrapped them in a big package of bullshit stamped “work” and put it aside when he got home to his normal life, to malfunctioning appliances and rooftop barbecues and pizza-loving dogs.

But Hulk had something _human_ inside him, something that wouldn't allow his dismissal. Clint looked in his eyes, and it was just _obvious_ that the Hulk couldn't possibly fit in that neat little box; the line between weird-ass shit and regular stuff cut right through him.

Maybe this was the reason he remained the most unsettling part of this brave new world. Maybe this duality was the true reason people were _scared_ of him.

“Why?” Clint repeated in a murmur.

The Hulk stared at him. There was a second which felt like an eternity, in the moving lights, red and blue and red and blue and red.

 

And then the titan briskly shook his head, crushing two massive palms over his ears. _“No,”_ he growled. “Not _over!_ Not _now!”_

Clint took a step back, puzzled. Hulk hunched in on himself, holding his head like he was trying to keep it in one piece. Suddenly it clicked. _Banner_ – the Hulk had calmed down enough, and now Banner was trying to take over.

 _“Not yet,”_ Hulk yelled. “Not _yet!”_

“No – let him,” Clint said. “Hulk? Please. Let him come back.”

It was happening already, anyway. The Hulk was shrinking, his face crunched in an awful scowl, and he seemed in so much pain that Clint heard himself say, “It's okay.”

Hulk looked up at him, and this time he looked neither like a man nor like a monster. He looked like a _kid._ A lost, scared little child, with a wild hope in his wide eyes, a child who had never been told in his entire life that it was _okay._

“I'll handle it,” Clint said, breathless. “You've got to go now. It's okay.”

Hulk panted, then closed his eyes and rolled in a ball – and finished his transformation at the same time. It was as though he had brutally shrunk into a naked Banner curled up on himself.

Clint just gaped at him in complete speechlessness. Bruce was slightly trembling, but his breathing was too deep and regular for him to be unconscious.

“...Ow,” he murmured after a while.

He clumsily unfolded his limbs, still holding his head like he was battling the mother of all headaches. The shredded tracksuit pants slid down his hips when he knelt up, and Clint instinctively looked away.

 _Dummy._ Everything he had been through, and _that_ still flustered him.But it just wasn't supposed to happen in his line of work – naked meant exposed, meant vulnerable, meant _dead._ A nude man on the battlefield was like a Hulk with human eyes, something deeply unsettling which simply shouldn't have been. Clint was embarrassed for Banner, but the scientist had apparently – understandably – lost his sense of modesty along the way.

“Clint?” he called, blinking as he stiffly got up. “Are you – are you alright?”

Clint snapped out of it and held out his hand to help him to his feet. “Yeah. I'm fine. You ?”

“Where – where are we? What happened?”

“You got shot. We've got to move, Bruce.”

 _“Shot?”_ the doctor said, aghast. “But – how – ”

Even in the dim light, Clint could see the blood suddenly leaving his face. “God,” he breathed. “I'm – I'm so sorry. It's all my fault.”

“What?”

“I forgot – the signal.” Bruce shook his head, eyes wide. “It's because of me you had to come running. And then – Jesus, you _told_ me not to say a word. I can't believe I – ”

“Hey,” Clint cut off, grabbing Banner's shoulders to shake him. _“Hey._ Snap out of it.”

The scientist blinked at him, looking as lost as Hulk had looked a moment ago.

“I think,” Clint said, “the one who should take the blame for shooting you is _the guy who shot you._ Alright?”

Bruce swallowed thickly, then swallowed again. “Um,” he murmured after a second. “Yeah. Alright.”

“Good,” Clint said. “Now we've got – ”

Without even finishing his sentence, he snapped his bow open and spun round in the same fluid movement, drawing at the shadow silhouette in the corner. It was a woman, with her face plunged in the dark. How had she gotten there? Had she come from the emergency stairs?

“Stand back, ma'am,” he warned. “We're the Avengers. The situation is under control.”

“I really doubt that,” she said.

She stepped out of the shadows with an icy glare.

It was Maria Hill.

Clint blinked and lowered his bow, mouth falling open. “Hill...?”

“I told you not to associate with Banner,” she said as though the scientist wasn't even there. “You didn't listen. And now you screwed up.” Her eyes narrowed. _“Big_ time.”

“It's my fault,” Clint hurriedly said. “I'm the one who dragged him into this.”

“Hey – no,” Bruce protested. “It's not how it – ”

“ _Shut up,”_ she snapped. “I don't care about who did what. I'm not your headmistress. I'm the one who has to cover up your fucking _mess.”_

She shrugged off the bag she was holding and threw it at Clint's feet. “SHIELD cannot condone that kind of action. You're on your own, Barton.”

Clint's breath caught and he heard his blood throb in his ears.

“You – you don't mean – ” he had to pause and swallow back a wave of nausea. “I'm... fired? From the team?”

She left him hanging for the worst minute of his life.

“Depends on you,” she said eventually. “If you're getting caught tonight, you're out. But we'd rather not deal with the fallout of that.”

He stared at her hesitantly, then glanced at the bag.

“I... guess you came in a Quinjet?”

“You're not getting a _ride,”_ she said coldly. “SHIELD was never officially here. We don't know what happened; we don't know you were on the scene. But if no one catches you tonight, we won't have to deny we knew it.”

Clint glanced back up at her.

“So basically, you're telling me to run,” he said in a slow voice.

“As I am not here, I cannot confirm nor deny that statement,” she calmly answered.

_Yeah, alright._

“If you manage not to get arrested, we can deal with this in a closed loop – and there _will_ be consequences, Barton. But for that, you've got to outrun the regular authorities first. And SHIELD does _not_ help wayward operatives to escape the police. Are we clear?”

Clint took a deep breath.

“Clear.”

He could probably do this. It wasn't like he'd always been on the right side of the law, after all. He just needed to get out of here – how hard could it be?

“What about me?” Bruce interjected.

He opened his hands with a small scoff. “Where do I fit in this – this little program of yours? I hardly count as a regular _operative,_ and this – ” he pointed out the window, “ – is just a casual Saturday for me.”

“Whether _you_ run or not makes no difference,” she said placidly. “If you get arrested, your case will be transferred to SHIELD anyway.” She glanced up at where the Quinjet must have landed. “I can bring you in right now and save us some time, if you want.”

Bruce sneered. “No thanks. I'll stick with Barton.”

Clint eyed him at that, but the scientist was staring straight at Hill, who shrugged.

“Suit yourself. I'll just see you in the morning, then.” She turned to Clint. “Hawkeye, I sincerely hope you'll be there too.”

“Great,” Clint mumbled in a dejected voice.

She peered out the window and said, “Good luck,” before nodding at them and vanishing in the shadows. Clint looked outside and saw people climbing up the emergency stairs. They would be here in four minutes. Maybe five.

It had been quite some time since he'd last played cops and robbers. Hill was a real bitch for just leaving him there, but – she also could have arrested him herself. Handed him to the police. But instead, she'd left him a way out; a tiny, laughable one, but still. A chance is a chance.

“Uh,” Bruce said.

Clint glanced up at him.

The doctor looked anxious. “Maybe I shouldn't have stayed. I mean – Jesus, I'm barefoot. I'm just going to be a hindrance.”

“Yeah, well, should have thought this through,” Clint admitted, crouching down to zip open the bag. “But now you're here, so there's no point talking about it.”

Bruce took a deep breath. Clint saw what was in the bag and smiled. “Besides, things are looking up already.”

“What do you – ”

Bruce's question was muffled when he took black pants to the face. Hill was still a bitch, but Clint silently thanked her anyway as he dug out a jacket and a pair of shoes, as well as a small bottle of water – how considerate. He rummaged through the bag for underwear, but it turned out the scientist would just have to go commando.

It must be an habit of Bruce's because already, he had slipped on the black trousers. Clint took his chance to twist off the lid of the bottle and rinse his mouth; he had to use all of it, but the eventual freshness replacing the awful taste of the sewers was heaven. Meanwhile, Bruce had shrugged on the nondescript jacket, then zipped it up before lacing his shoes in two seconds flat. Obviously, he was used to changing in a hurry. Clint realized how humiliating this must be for him – seeing how he made a point in never wearing a uniform. But if it did disturb him, he didn't let it show.

When he got up from his crouch, the tactical jacket and the tight battle pants stuffed in his rangers made him look like an actual field agent. Clint caught himself thinking that it was a really nice change from his baggy, rumpled clothes.

“Okay,” he said, tossing the empty bottle away. “Here's the plan. The wreckage zone is lit up, but it's really dark all around. We'll reach the opposite building and get down. Then we just have to be extra careful, and we can walk back home. Simple.”

“ _Simple,”_ Bruce repeated, incredulous. “And how _do_ we reach the opposite building?”

Clint smirked and made his quiver click and whirr. The doctor's eyes widened.

“No.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Grappling arrow, Bruce.”

He got it out and checked the head. When he looked up, the scientist had run to the opposite window and he was muttering calculations under his breath, looking up and down the façade of the building across the street.

“Eight meters,” he blurted out. “No – eight meters fifty-two. For the length of the rope.”

“I – what?”

“I'm the physicist here,” Bruce said agitatedly. “Eight meters fifty-two. So we won't crash against the opposite wall too hard. It's basic simple pendulum physics, speed is proportional to the square root of the length – ”

“Fine, fine,” Clint cut off, adjusting the length of the cable on the arrowhead and drawing his bow. “Eight meters fifty.”

“Fifty- _two.”_

“Shut up.”

The arrow firmly stuck itself in the opposite building, and at the same second, he heard a clanking noise behind them. Time to get moving.

“O – _kay, g_ et ready for your first flight,” he said, and wrapped his arm around Bruce's waist, who startled.

“Wait – wait – _Clint_ – ”

Clint wrapped the rope around his forearm, tightened his grip on Bruce and threw them both out the window.

Jumping off buildings was almost routine by now. Truth be told, what he had been the most afraid of was whether he could carry someone else through this stunt. But he had already noticed, helping Banner climb up the stairs, how light the scientist actually was. There wasn't a pound of fat on him, only lean, hard muscles on a scrawny frame. On the other hand, Clint's upper body might not be as impressive as Steve Rogers's bulk, but he was still built by decades of archery.

He felt an initial shock when gravity caught on – the cable _slicing_ through his forearm, and his bruised ribs violently protesting – but he didn't let go of Banner, and they dashed through the night toward the rapidly approaching façade and Clint prepared himself oh this was gonna _hurt –_

He slammed into the brick wall feet-first and absorbed most of the shock in his thighs; Bruce managed to take a part of the impact as well. No sprained ankles, no dislocated shoulders. Good, and _good._

God bless physics.

Clint gritted his teeth to fight the excruciating pain in his forearm, took a deep breath despite the agony in his chest, and moved his fingers; a whirr, a click, and the cable started to unwind. They just had to touch the ground now, and then walk away without attracting any –

 _“Hey!”_ someone yelled from the top of the decoy building. _“There's someone there!”_

“Shit,” Clint muttered.

He heard the scratching sound of walkies-talkies above them.

“Gonna have to do a bit of running, Doc.”

“Story of my life,” Bruce said breathlessly.

A few cops were already running towards their landing point, drawing out their guns. _“Freeze! Hands up!”_

“Split up,” Clint breathed in Bruce's ear. “Meet at the corner of Gates and Tompkins. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“If I'm not there – ”

But then they touched the ground; Banner immediately shrugged Clint's arm off him to bolt out and disappear into the nearest alley. Most of the cops went after him; Clint shook free of the cable with a hiss of pain, then snapped his bow shut – and _ran._

He ran, ran, ran, heard shouting and stomping behind him, took a brisk turn to the left, then to the right, and ran again until he felt his heart was going to beat out of his chest; and even then he kept running, he ran until he had no idea where he was, he ran until it was all dark and gray and orange around him. No one was chasing him, it was just too dark and all the police cars were at the wreckage scene and they couldn't run like a trained agent could, so this meant Clint had gotten _out,_ but he just couldn't stop running, he was wired up with adrenaline, it had been too easy and now he needed to let off improbable amounts of steam, he was flying down the pavement, the lights of the city were dashing past him and he felt _alive,_ exhilaratingly alive. And suddenly he was on Gates Avenue, so brightly lit it looked like fucking Times Square out of fucking nowhere, and Bruce was there, a lonely, anxious silhouette at the corner of Tompkins Street.

He saw Clint and Clint saw him – but didn't stop; he just grabbed the scientist's arm as he rushed past him and dragged him in his rat race. Bruce stumbled a little at first but then picked up the pace, and they ran down the street like crazy teenagers, ran ran ran _ran_ until Clint's lungs were burning and begging for mercy and he was laughing, he felt like he was drowning in the open air, laughing and choking at the same time, and only then he stopped, breathless; and he stood Bruce against a wall, and kissed him.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Holds breath, wrings hands* ...Please, tell me what you thought?


	12. Walk of shame

 

 

 

 

 

Nothing serious.

This could have been Clint's epitaph. Nothing _serious._

He had kissed Natasha Romanov, only once, a long time ago. Reaching out to her was the one op he was still really proud of to this day; the one time he had really felt he had made a difference – and a _good_ one. The first months had been tough for them both, though. Nobody trusted Tash, nobody trusted Clint for bringing Tash in; and deep inside him, he still felt sorry for dragging her into what was just another circus, only with less glitter and more paychecks. She hadn't really had a choice. Neither had had Clint when _he'd_ been brought in – it was either signing in, or sending the nineteen-year-old, fair-haired, pretty boy he was at the time in jail for ten years.

SHIELD or torture and death. SHIELD or prison and rape. Funny how those choices kept presenting themselves.

Anyway – Clint had been the only one to be sent on the field with Tasha for quite some time. _The work wife,_ he called her. She never smiled. Until one day he crashed the Quinjet bringing them home. They crawled out from the flaming wreckage, and they were both coughing and bruised and _alive,_ and he didn't another reason to kiss her.

She had punched him in the face and broken one of his front teeth.

And then she had smiled. And he had choked on a laugh, too; and nothing more had even happened between them, no matter how many people thought they were an item. That was friendship for you.

Jessica was different.

She had somehow appeared right after Manhattan, right after a thousand shrinks had declared Hawkeye sane while obviously they had no clue what they were talking about. Clint still felt like his mind was wrecked just like the wrecked streets he walked to get home. There was a void inside him too great to be even looked at.

Was that the reason Jess had taken interest into him? The whole broken soldier schtick? He had heard of Spider-Woman through SHIELD's files, of course, but the first Assemble call after Manhattan was when he met her in person, for the first time. He really didn't know what she had seen in him then; didn't know why she had taken him to bed that first night in the mansion. But he hadn't said no.

Perhaps he should have. Ugly truth be told, he felt nothing but a deep powerlessness when he was with her. He knew she expected of him to be her _boyfriend._ As though he had any idea how to be anything to anyone. _Nothing serious,_ but he should have told her that before she straddled him, before she took off his shirt, before she leaned down and didn't come back up.

 

And now, he was kissing Banner.

 

Everything that had happened in the past hours, the panic, the horror, the agony, the confusion; it all collided in a spiral of high-pressure adrenaline, and Bruce Banner was the only one here – not Natasha or Jessica or Kate or Bobbi, but _Banner;_ so he was the one Clint backed against the wall, like he always did things, on an impulse and with absolutely no rational thinking involved; not a single thought devoted to the harm he might cause.

He had never kissed a guy before.

It only lasted a few seconds, really. Their dry lips pressed together; then Banner seemed to realize that Clint hadn't just stumbled and fallen on his mouth – and he wouldn't have startled more violently if someone had _stabbed_ him. He gripped Clint's shoulders to shove him back and at about this same second, Clint realized what he was doing, and what a spectacular fuck-up it was.

They stayed there, still panting from the run, Banner's fingers digging in his arms, their faces only inches apart. The doctor was too breathless to speak, but the pure shock on his face slowly turned into a scowl of anger, of deep, real _pain;_ then a hint of confusion crept up, and morphed his welling tears of wounded fury into something more desperate – an almost insane longing.

He tugged Clint back and crushed their mouths together.

It was frantic and needy, and about as messy as the previous kiss had been chaste. Clint let out a muffled sound when Bruce's tongue forced his lips to claim him deep and open-mouthed. Again, it lasted a second, maybe two; and then it was Bruce's turn to break their tangled embrace with a gasping breath and a look of stunned horror on his face.

“I – ” he stammered.

His eyes were so wide it could have been funny. It wasn't. It wasn't funny at all.

“I – I – I never – ”

“It's okay,” Clint said instantly. “Sorry, I'm sorry, this one's on me. I do really stupid things on adrenaline high. Just forget it.”

“I didn't – ”

“No, _really,_ don't. S'nothing serious. Nothing at _all._ No need to freak out.”

He couldn't tell if Bruce looked insanely relieved or utterly lost.

“Look,” Clint said. “You got shot, I got _fired,_ and we got chased by the cops at five am after destroying a square mile of sewers. What just happened – it's by far the last thing we should get worked up about. Y'know?”

There was still a haunted look in Bruce's eyes, like they had done something irreparable, something outright unnatural. So much that for a split second, Clint wondered whether this was about the kiss at all.

But then, the scientist glanced down and nodded, with a deep sigh. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Yeah. Um. Sorry.”

“No, it's me, man. Don't worry. What is it they say in the movies – 'let's never talk about this again'?”

A tiny smile ghosted over the scientist's lips. He nodded and they just stood there for a while, with deep, heaving breaths. A stray car passed by from time to time. The asphalt was still wet from the rain and glistening under the orange lights. Deserted streets at night always reeked of a sour loneliness, and this one was no different.

“You're not fired, you know,” Bruce mumbled eventually.

“Sorry?”

“You said you were fired. I don't think you will be.”

Clint winced. “Yeah, well,” he muttered. “We'll see.”

He was finally catching his breath and the flaming, powerful rush which had carried him until then was dying out, leaving him cold and dejected. The stench of the sewers was still clinging to him; he realized that his chest hurt so much it was painful to breathe. And he was seized once more by the weary feeling of being completely worthless.

Well. Just look at him. Look at what he'd done.

He shook his head. “Whatever. I just want to go home right now.”

Bruce nodded. He looked weary, too, tired and weary. He rubbed the arch of his eyebrows with his palm, in a somewhat odd gesture, then dropped his hand.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Let's go.”

 

*

 

Clint was exhausted, but he still managed to limp past his bed and into the shower – no way he would let the sheets soak up this awful stench if he could avoid it. His forearm wound stung like hell; and looking down at the water trickling on his chest, he saw long, black, finger-shaped bruises printed across his ribs.

He made a mental note never to let Bruce know about it, then scrubbed himself and turned off the water.

Still naked, he dug through his cabinet for antibiotics. There must be something there which would prevent massive bacterial infection – he felt cramps in his stomach already, and he knew he had virtually no chance to get some actual rest tonight. He didn't want to poison himself, though. SHIELD provided their agents with decent first-aid kits, but Clint had been enrolled years ago and he never asked for a refill since. Outdated medicine was –

A deep shudder made him double over. Goosebumps flared on his skin like wind rippling over a lake. But he was just cold. _Cold,_ that was all. And tired. He was shivering, sweat beading on his forehead already.

He gripped the sink and hoisted himself up again – and then his gaze fell on Bruce's sad little Tupperware. He opened it and found what he was looking for: the kind of wide-range, kick-ass, vaguely illegal antibiotics you could only find in countries where malaria was an everyday problem. If that shit didn't kill him, he was likely never to get sick again. He twisted off the lid with trembling hands, then popped two pills in his mouth.

He was covered in sweat now, but he didn't have the strength to take another shower. He made an inhuman effort to put on a shirt and pants, then grabbed three extra covers and collapsed into bed, teeth chattering.

 

*

 

 _Hill's black eyes red lips blue and red and blue and red_ you are FIRED, BARTON _the gleam of teeth teeth teeth CLAWS Lucky's claws Lucky licking his face_ no go away go away I'm sick bad dog _Fury looking down on him_ bad dog, Barton, we took you in and now what a failure you NO _please please please_ fill in this form and you're ours _but I don't want to be don't want please_ _I just want to help,_ your brother tried to kill you _no Barney Barney_ BARNEY _please help me, don't leave me alone, oh please oh why no_ you're hurting me _you're gonna kill me I'm your brother please, please, PLEASE I'm your_ oh fuck I'm so sick so fucking sick _goddamn sewers goddamn Tracksuits black red green dazzling green radioactive green_ HE'S GOT RADIATION POISONING, WHAT DO YOU THINK? _a cold hand on his forehead a mother's hand he had a mother once but then the orphanage the circus circus circus CIRCUS Ladies and Gentlemen, the Amazing Hawkeye eye eye I, I don't_ Lucky, leave me alone, I'm sick _and a warm hand on his shoulder but it's too cold cold cold COLD shuddering, shaking, freezing, a hot weight on him no Lucky can't breathe no YES_ , let him, climb your fever, reach the peak and jump it _good dog, good boy,_ good boy, obedient boy, you have heart, you have _heart HEART heart please no no no I just want to help I'm just trying to help it's not my fault it's always my fault running in circles circles circles repeat repeat repeat repeat so fucking sick I'm going to_ don't be stupid, THOSE WERE FOR BANNER!

 

Clint pushed off the covers, causing Lucky to startle awake and jump off the bed. He staggered into the bathroom and managed to reach the toilet bowl in time to fall on his knees and throw up, endlessly, horribly, sweat drenching his clothes and hair, thoughts tangling in his head.

But it did end eventually. Gasping for breath on the cold floor, he realized his fever had broken.

He stepped inside the shower and turned the water on, not caring what temperature it was. He felt awful, but he also knew it was over. Sort of.

After a long minute, he realized he was still dressed and peeled off his drenched clothes to let them fall at his feet. His vision was starting to cloud over. He turned the water off, then stepped out, gripping the edges of the shower door for balance. Bruce's pills were still there and he took another one, then drank what felt like three gallons of water.

He wiped his mouth, avoiding his own gaze in the mirror. He didn't want to remember what he had dreamed of, but faces and voices were still dancing in his mind, as well as the feeling that every flat surface was a sharp edge. He was exhausted, but he still dressed himself again – it wasn't the first time he was sick with no one to help him and tell him what to do. He knew it would be okay. He would be fine.

Looking at his bed, he found himself disgusted at the idea of crawling back under the drenched sheets. He just grabbed a cover and went to sleep on the couch; and this time there were no dreams, no voices, no faces. Nothing.

Only quiet.

 

*

 

SHIELD had the decency to wait until noon before they came in to arrest Clint. The aggressive knock on his door woke him up instantly and he didn't doubt who it was for a second.

He felt spectacularly stiff and shitty when he rose from the couch, like a Tracksuit Vampire from his Adidas coffin. What was he doing on the couch, anyway? He vaguely remembered being awfully sick during the night, but everything was blurring in his head.

There was another knock. Lucky whined and growled, but Clint shushed him, then shrugged on his jacket and stepped into his shoes. He just wanted to be done with it. He went to get the door with the distant fatality of a condemned thief, or a guilty kid. He had hoped for Natasha, or even Hill, or maybe just faceless agents who would have taken him away without making a fuss.

But no.

They had sent Jessica.

The second he opened the door, she slapped him so violently it left his ears ringing for a good two minutes. The two agents waiting behind her were careful not to make any comments. He swallowed, cheek burning, and said nothing.

She stared at him for an excruciating minute.

“Cuff him,” she spat eventually.

“That's not necessary,” Clint muttered, offering his wrists anyway and waiting for the slight _click_. “You know that.”

She slapped him again. He let his head jerk to the side, and left it there.

“I don't know,” she said in a low, pained voice. “I don't know what I know anymore.”

“Could we do this inside?” he said, staring blankly at the wall. “Don't want to upset my neighbors.”

She was crying. Just a single tear trembling in the corner of her right eye, but she was crying. Clint felt like he was sinking.

“Five hours,” she hissed. “For five hours, you slept next to me without saying a thing. I asked you if something was _wrong,_ for fuck's sake. And then you go and do – _this.”_

He looked down. There was nothing to say.

She sniffed once, in brisk, almost professional way, then said, “Let's go.”

“What about Banner?” said one of her goons.

“Here,” a soft voice answered.

They all snapped round at him and the two agents cocked their guns. On the landing downstairs, the scientist raised his hands with a slight smile, which didn't quite reach his eyes. He had put back on his purple shirt and leather jacket; he wasn't wearing his glasses. Clint vaguely remembered Banner had left them on hiscoffee table before going to battle. He couldn't have said why the thought was striking him now.

“You're going to handcuff me as well, Agent Drew?” Banner said, with that cold little smile.

“Lower your guns,” she mumbled to her goons, before saying out loud, “No. I know you'll come willingly, doctor.”

“You _hope_ I will,” he corrected.

Jess stiffened. He kept smiling at her, and it was becoming slightly eerie at the edges. For a split second, he glanced at Clint, took in his dejected look, his bound wrists – then his brown eyes set on Jessica again.

She was growing more and more nervous.

“Doctor – ”

“There's, what, _three_ of you?”he said. “In which world is that enough, Agent Drew?”

“I'm not a SHIELD agent,” she mumbled.

She sounded like a little girl somehow.

“You're doing a pretty good impression of it,” he said with a mock nod. “So enlighten me, _Miss_ Drew. What's the protocol if I refuse to come?”

That was when Clint realized just how _furious_ Banner was. It didn't show – only in his strained, dangerous little smile – but he was absolutely seething. He was trained to repress his anger, trained not to let it show, but the feeling remained and infected him like a cold poison, his control making it all the more frightening.

“Doctor, it doesn't have to be this way,” Jessica said, her voice too high-pitched. “Please. Be reasonable.”

“But what if I don't _want_ to?” Bruce went on, _mercilessly,_ his eyes planted on hers. “Do you know how many people there are in this building, Miss Drew? Do you know how many people there are in _Brooklyn?_ Do you think you're in a position to give me orders?”

He lowered his hands with a sneer. “What do you do when you can't take Banner for granted anymore?”

She actually took a step back. It was like watching a spider in a mantis' claws, and Clint couldn't stand it. It wasn't her fault – she didn't deserve Banner's wrath, this sudden anger gushing out of him like a dam had broken. And SHIELD considered him a threat enough as it was.

Then the doctor glanced at Clint again – and obviously saw something there which cracked the steel in his eyes.

He looked down. Then, he looked up. And his smile was soft and small as usual.

“Well,” he said, impossibly mild-mannered after his thorough verbal crushing. “I'm sorry. That was mean.”

The corner of his lip quirked, like he'd done a private joke, but there was no real joy in it. “All rhetoric, of course. You know how scientists are.”

Jessica was taken aback. “You're – you're coming, then?” she said, sounding lost and still viscerally _terrified._

Clint felt bad for her.

Thankfully, she gathered herself together a second later. “Right. Good.” She took a deep breath, then spun on her heels.

Clint followed without a word, and Bruce obligingly brought up the rear.

 

*

 

It was the very end of November, and despite the somewhat late hour, the sun was still shyly peeking above the rooftops. Clint was relieved not to find Grills on the frost-covered roof. The scintillating cement distracted him from what was happening, just for a second; then his gaze trailed off to the dark shape of the Quinjet waiting for them, and that second was gone.

Looking up, Clint had the time to catch sight of the immense rectangle of the Helicarrier in the clouds. It didn't last; someone pushed him inside the dark belly of the aircraft, and the sky vanished behind tinted glass.

Banner was back to his quiet, introvert self. He sat in a corner and didn't say a word, like he was trying to melt into the wall. Jessica was sitting at the back with them. Clint knew she was waiting for him to attempt an apology or an explanation. But he also knew she would brush him off the second he tried; so be it out of anticipated rejection or misplaced pride, he kept silent.

Which allowed him to realize that he had been so out of it that he'd put back on his thrashed, wet, stinking jacket. _Wonderful thinking there, Barton. That is totally going to help your case._ And now he just wanted to take a shower again. What a moron.

They boarded the Helicarrier only minutes later. Clint got up a bit too soon and stumbled when his cuffed wrists prevented him from finding his balance. Jessica caught his arm, but then let go instantly; he almost _hoped_ it was because his jacket was so dirty, but obviously, she couldn't have cared less about how smelly he was.

She just wouldn't meet his gaze anymore.

Banner got up quietly, and followed Clint out of the aircraft, into the tremendous hangar of the giant ship. They were led to their judges through three elevators and endless steel corridors – it took them longer to get there than it had taken the Quinjet to get to the ship. Their steps were echoing in the hallways. Clint tried to recall the feeling of owning this place, the blissful dizziness of sailing through the clouds in a flying fortress, but it was gone. To be honest, he hadn't felt it in a while. The Helicarrier had lost its mythical glow after Manhattan, like many other things.

Finally, they found themselves at the council chambers. The great door opened on a dim-lit, shut down room; the screens were all turned off and the chairs all empty except for two of them, taken respectively by Hill and Fury.

Jessica must have her orders, since she stayed at the door and let Clint and Bruce go in, still without a word. The door slammed behind them and for a brief, horrible second, Clint thought he was going to be sick.

“So,” Fury said, straight to the point as always.

He laced his hands. “What do you have to say for your defense?”

Clint swallowed, but before he could even open his mouth, Bruce said lightly, “I think it's customary for the accusers to make their case first.”

Fury glared at him.

“Doctor,” he said slowly. “Are you going to play dirty with us?”

“I'm going to play by the book,” Bruce answered. “I'm the accused too, after all.”

“Fine – you want us to make our case?” Fury groaned. “You went down in the sewers for some fucked-up reason and ended up causing hundreds of thousands in damage. Not to mention seven civilian deaths.”

Bruce blanched a little. It was this pallor, rather than the actual news, which made Clint's stomach heave again. He remembered the tracksuit jacket floating in the dirty water.

“All of this to go against some – some third-rate street _gang,”_ Fury spat.

“No,” Clint blurted.

They snapped round at him this time. “What?”

“I also thought these guys were shit, but – they're not. They're under the authority of some kind of supervillain council called the Family. I – guess.”

“You _guess,”_ Fury sneered.

“Madame Masque was there.”

That wiped the scowls off their faces. They glanced at each other, then back at him.

“She's in Madripoor, Barton.”

“Not anymore. She was _there_ – and she somehow stole Tesseract related research,” he said hurriedly, remembering Bruce's words. “That's what she studied in the sewers. That's what I went to find out.”

They stared at him, their black eyes eerily similar in the dim lighting. Clint's forearm wound was throbbing under his bandage; he'd forced himself to clean it as well as he could, but the cable had dug really deep into his skin. He should have taken better care of it.

“Barton,” Hill said cautiously. “This could be serious. But you'll understand that after what happened, we can't just take your word for it.”

“Hard evidence,” Fury summed up. “Or you're off the field. You've had too many warnings already, Barton.”

Yeah, chasing people away from his neighborhood wasn't exactly the police's idea of good citizenship. And all that stuff eventually came back to SHIELD. Clint was actually surprised they hadn't called him on it earlier.

“So, what do you have?” Fury said. “Anything?”

He was giving him a last chance, Clint knew, but his hands were empty.

“No, sir.”

“Actually,” Bruce said.

This time, all three of them turned to him. He had this little smile again, so tiny it was almost invisible.

“I need to retrieve something from Agent Barton's pocket,” he said.

Fury and Hill exchanged another glance.

“Go ahead.”

Bruce came forward and slipped his hand inside Clint's jacket. He felt the scientist dislodge something which had been digging in his stomach without him noticing. When he eventually got it out, Clint blinked at it.

It was the chunk of earth they had found in the Tracksuits' lair, in its neat little plastic bag. He hadn't really noticed it was so big, but now that he saw it close he wondered how it had even fitted inside his pocket.

Fury's eye narrowed. “What is that?”

“We found it in the underground base,” Bruce said, patiently opening the bag when Clint would have just ripped the plastic.

He let the dusty chunk fall in his open palm.

“But what _is_ it?” Hill frowned.

“Just ordinary dirt,” the scientist smiled. “It's what's inside I'm interested in.”

He crushed the chunk of earth on the neat, smooth table, and crumbled it with his thumb. Hill, who was leaning forward, suddenly jerked back. Bruce's smile grew tinged with faint amusement.

“Seriously?” he said. “You're afraid of _bugs?”_

Clint could only stare in astonishment.

Dozens and dozens of black _ants_ were swarming the steel surface, completely panicked ants running around in expanding, erratic circles, more and more ants covering more and more of the table with their milling, ants everywhere, like a plague set free by Bruce Banner's hand.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and commenting. Seriously, you're the best! Let's hear it for my beta laurie_ky who was an even bigger help than usual with this chapter! And as always... tell me what you thought? ^^


	13. Kill and tell

 

 

 

 

 

 

They took off Clint's handcuffs, then sent Bruce away and sat their agent down to start the story from the beginning again. Because yes, apparently, firing Clint Barton wasn't on the menu anymore. Not when he had found a major lead on the biggest super-villain threat of the moment.

Funny how little ants could suddenly change the game.

One of them had escaped a hasty sweeping from the lab agents, and was now running along the edge of the steel table, panicked and lost. Clint couldn't help feeling sympathetic. His dreadful night and his encounter with Jessica had wrung him out. Not to mention his throbbing forearm and the dull, deep pain in his ribs. He was still a bit sick and he only wanted to burn his jacket and go to _sleep._

But he had to take the chance Banner had given him, so he started talking.

 

He told them everything. Almost. Well – okay, he told them about the map and what he had found in the middle of it. There wasn't much else of interest, was there? By the time he was done, Hill was running the Tracksuit Vampires and Madame Masque in their database, along with all allusions to a 'Family' in the underworld, and connecting the files to the current investigations on the two Ants Incidents and to possible leaks on Tesseract research. Field teams would be sent into the wrecked sewers and the decoy building to investigate the scene. Clint had to repeat his story one, two, three times, until he started embellishing it with so many cuss words that even Fury was scowling.

“Alright,” the director said after four hours of debrief. “We'll take it from here, Agent Barton.”

He drew his chair back. “You stay the fuck out of trouble from now on – as a matter of fact, I'm suspending you for two weeks.”

Clint's eyes snapped at him and he raised his hands in a soothing gesture. “It's not a punishment. More like a mandatory holiday. You need to step back, and you need to get some rest.”

Clint couldn't argue with that, but – “I can't rest while they're still out there.” _And my neighbors are_ literally _sending smoke signals from the roof._

“They're not,” Fury said. “They're scattered. Panicked. Like an ant's nest after a good kick.” He gave a short hum. “We'll get them, Agent.”

Clint sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Just go home,” Fury said, in a quieter voice. “It'll do us all some good.”

“Enough with the praise, I'm going to blush,” Clint mumbled.

Fury raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “Barton, you did good, but it doesn't change the fact that you did it _by accident._ Better not tempt fate – you got lucky this time.”

“Yeah, he's a cool dog,” Clint yawned.

The director didn't even try to understand. “You're dismissed. Turn your pager back on in two weeks.”

Clint didn't move from his seat. Fury took a second to notice, then looked across him and raised his eyebrows, waiting for him to speak.

Clint coughed a little and said, “You told me seven people died there.”

All exasperation briefly vanished from Fury's eye. “Yes,” he said quietly. “All members of the Russian mob.”

“And?”

“And as much as I hate those words, they're collateral damage.”

“Who's going to take the blame for it?”

Fury stared at him, and Clint knew that Fury knew that he _knew._ Banner was the one who had provoked the collapse and the flood, after all. It was only logical.

He sat up a bit more stiffly and said, “With all due respect, sir, I'd like to ask that these deaths be put on my record.”

“With all due respect: request denied.”

“Sir, I'm the one who took Banner there – ”

“You don't get it,” Fury cut off.

He gave a sigh which managed to sound both exasperated and weary. “It's not about guilt, Barton. It's about _paperwork.”_

Clint blinked.

“The World Council agrees to freeze Banner's charges, because he is our most powerful weapon,” Fury explained in his deep voice. “And because he is a monster. Monsters are _expected_ to screw up. On the other hand, agents – _heroes_ – cannot get away with it. All eyes are on us, and we have absolutely no margin for fuck-ups, Barton. We must be perfect. Perfect people aren't allowed to slip.”

He opened his hands in a fatalistic gesture. “I make those bodies yours, you're in trial next week and in jail for the next century.”

Clint could only gape at him. Fury sneered.

“What – you thought I'd made him into a scapegoat just for _fun?”_ he said, spelling out exactly what Clint had thought indeed. “Am I wearing a horned helmet and holding a glowstick of doom, Barton?”

Clint had never felt more desperately stupid in his life.

“The doctor is a shield,” Fury concluded. “A lighting conductor in the middle of a thunderstorm. And God knows we need a shield from the people who tried to fucking _nuke Manhattan.”_

Clint was still staring, slightly shaking his head.

“But – ” he said after a while.

He said nothing else for quite some time.

“...Does Banner know?” he eventually muttered.

Fury leaned back in his seat.

“Not officially. But he's not dumb.”

Clint took a second to appreciate how one of the greatest minds of the century had been graced “not dumb” by Nick Fury. It made him wonder how the director would have described _him._

Yeah, better not go that way, actually.

That changed a _lot_ of things. Except it didn't – not really. There were still lists of corpses scrolling down before Bruce's eyes after each battle. And no matter what Fury said, this was _also_ about guilt.

About securing that shield in place.

“That's fucked-up, sir,” Clint said with all the dignity he could muster.

Fury just opened his hands again. _Welcome to the real world._

Clint scowled at him and Fury sighed again. “Barton, you got lucky this time,” he repeated calmly. “It was pretty clear who provoked the collapse of the sewers. But next time you'll be standing next to the Hulk, something's gonna blow, something sharp's gonna stab something soft, and we won't be able to prove you weren't at fault. This is exactly what Hill was trying to tell you. _Stay away from Banner.”_

Clint took a deep breath.

“Am I dismissed, sir?” he asked.

“You've been dismissed for the past five minutes, Agent.”

He brutally stood up.

“Enjoy your holidays,” Fury called out just before the door shut down behind him.

 

*

 

Banner was still here.

He was sitting on a steel bench in the corridor, tucked in his leather jacket, and dozing off against the rumbling walls. When Clint got out, he opened owlish eyes then got up so suddenly he wavered a little with the blood rush.

“Clint – are you – ”

 _“Agent Barton,_ please,” Clint corrected with a smile. “Don't sell me so short.”

Bruce stared at him for a second; then his entire self seemed to sag in relief. He nodded haphazardly, exhaustion obviously catching up with him.

“Oh,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Oh. Well. That's – good.”

Clint watched him rub his face like a sleepy little boy, and something twisted inside him. Banner had waited for him in this box of steel for four hours; and that was still the _least_ he'd done for him.

A wizard; with no doves in his pockets, but ant nests up his sleeves.

“Thank you,” Clint murmured.

Banner coughed awkwardly.

“...Yeah,” he only mumbled, rubbing the back of his head.

He was even worse than Clint at this, and that was saying something. It seemed like none of them knew exactly how to deal with gratitude, and preferred not to deal with it at all. So Clint took mercy on him and changed the subject.

“I've been suspended for two weeks, though.”

“Good,” Bruce said, then coughed at Clint's frown and quickly added, “I mean – you look like you could use quieter times.”

“Yeah. Fury more or less ordered me not to do anything more harmful than baking cookies for the next fifteen days.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Baking cookies can be _very_ harmful.”

“It's lucky I've got a nuclear scientist to help, then,” Clint smirked.

The doctor's smile was tiny and nervous. He glanced up to answer – probably something about radiation and cooking not mixing very well – but then he turned a shade paler and coughed again.

“Um,” he said. “I'll just – I think there's a Quinjet leaving.”

He spun on his heels and Clint turned to look behind him.

For some unfathomable reason, he found Jessica even more gorgeous than usual.

She was wearing her suit with her cowl up, which gave her an unearthly grace with the added bonus of those huge, blank eyes. Clint remembered he was wearing a smelly jacket on worn-out clothes. Outlined against the steel walls, she was terrifying and beautiful.

Then she took down her cowl, and she was just Jessica with red eyes and drawn features.

Clint's chest physically clenched, to the point of envying Tony Stark and his heart of steel for a second. God, he had fucked up. So completely fucked up. And he had no idea how to make up for _this_ mess.

“Walk with me?” she mumbled, in a small, wet voice.

Well.

Yeah, that could be a start.

 

*

 

“You asked me yesterday if I ever killed anyone on the field,” she said as they came out on the bridge.

“Was it just yesterday?”

Her smile was as joyless as one of Banner's.

“I did,” she went on. “Three people.”

 _No,_ Clint thought. _You killed a lot more. But you're a hero. You don't get collateral damage._

The sky was heavy with silver clouds, the tarmac outside still wet with rain. Fury's words were echoing in his ears. Clint was so stupid. God, Manhattan _alone_ – most of the deaths were attributable to Loki, of course, but with Thor's lightning and Stark's beams and Clint's explosive arrows, how many civilians had died?

Of course, it wasn't their _fault._ What else could they have done? They had to keep people safe. They had to fight.

Hence they had to kill.

Clint rubbed his forehead. He hadn't felt the headache coming, but now it wasn't going away anytime soon. He knew about this stuff, he _knew._

But until then he'd always known from a distance.

“I'm sorry,” he said, because it seemed like something he should say, and maybe Jessica would hear it now.

She shook her head, without a word. Of course, apologizing for breaking her trust – for never trusting her – was not enough. Hell, she had never even set foot in Clint's apartment before she was sent to arrest him. But Clint wasn't actually saying sorry for shutting her off; he knew how pointless _that_ would have been.

He was saying sorry for kissing Banner.

He didn't tell her that, though, and it was probably the most intelligent thing he'd done all day. Heck, all month.

“So, I guess you're not fired anymore,” she said.

“I'm suspended.”

She sighed.

“I tried, Clint,” she said. “I tried for longer than I should have, maybe.”

Then she looked at him, and it was the coldest stare he had ever gotten. “But there was nothing worth trying for, was there?”

“Jess...”

“Don't call me Jess,”she said icily. “You can go with _Agent Drew_ , since your friend seemed to find it funny.”

“Banner's not a _friend,”_ he protested. “Not really. He's just...”

He stopped when he realized he had no idea how to finish that sentence.

“He's just the worst choice you ever made,” Jessica completed. “He's the _embodiment_ of a bad choice.”

Clint felt his fists clench as though on their own volition.

“ _Hey,”_ he snapped. “Just because we did _one_ op together – is everyone getting off on bashing this guy's head in, or what? Why can't any of you cut him some slack?”

She looked at him coldly. “And why should we? Just because he's being vaguely civil when he's not green and leveling cities? He's a _threat_ , Barton. You used to know that. Go read his file; maybe it'll clear your mind.”

“So I'm _Barton_ now.”

How had he gotten so angry? He was trying to apologize only the minute before. It was like the aborted fight which had been brewing between them for so long was finally breaking out.

“You're my teammate,” she corrected.

A lone Quinjet was waiting in the hangar, whose immensity was made utterly colorless by the cold light of a November afternoon.

“And that's the best you can ever hope to be,” she said coldly. “To _anyone._ Because you're a bad person, Clint Barton. Every time anybody starts to care about you – or God forbid, you start to care about _them_ – you let them down.”

She was staring straight ahead, back very stiff.

 _“That's_ your superpower.”

 

*

 

Banner's door was locked and Clint didn't want to knock. He didn't even want to think about the scientist right now. He climbed up the stairs in a haze, thinking only of his bed and of _not_ thinking.

When he noticed his door was already open, he sighed and just walked in, shrugging off his jacket to throw it away. If there were Tracksuits waiting inside, they could literally be his fucking guests. He was past caring.

“Hey.”

He was so exhausted, physically and mentally, that Kate's presence stirred nothing but an even greater weariness inside him. He closed the door behind him. Lucky was sleeping on the floor by the couch and at this point, his master could almost have joined him rather than facing whatever waited to be faced here.

“Katie,” he mumbled. “If you're here to yell at me or something...”

She got up, then grabbed his arm and dragged him to the couch. “Don't be stupid.”

She threw him down on the plump pillows and for a wild, _what-the-fuck_ second, he almost thought she was going to straddle him next and jump his bones. But as it turned out, he had watched too much porn, because she just sat at the other end of the couch – and handed him a giant bucket of chicken wings.

Even _better._

“Oh God,” he said, sitting up. “Katie – I love you. You're my favorite person in the entire world.”

“Idiot,” she murmured.

But she drew her knees up against her chest like a little girl, and grinned at him. He wolfed down half a dozen wings in less than a minute, and it was the best fucking thing he'd ever tasted. He only remembered now that he hadn't eaten anything since... _before_ he got radiation poisoning. _Jesus._

“What the hell have you gotten yourself into, boss?” Kate asked.

“'ong 'tory,” he said between two bites, before swallowing. “Really long, fucked-up, pathetic story.”

She smirked. “About usual, then?”

“Bitch,” he mumbled, diving down the bucket again.

He was so glad to have her back it hurt. After a dozen more wings, the near panic which had possessed him finally deserted him, and his chest tightened another notch. He recognized the feeling – but he hadn't cried since his circus days; and he knew he couldn't if he tried.

He just took deep, regular breaths, and started eating more slowly. Eventually, he hit bottom and, well, wasn't that a fitting metaphor.

He took a deep breath, and said, “I'm sorry.”

“You mean you're sorry for not saving me any wings?”

He stared at her for a few horrified seconds.

“You – I – ”

She burst into laughter. “Have you always been so easy to mess with?”

He smiled, then looked down into the empty bucket. “Maybe.”

She stopped laughing, then scooted closer, sitting cross-legged on the couch. Clint sighed. He had already told the same story four or five times today. But she was the one who truly deserved to hear it.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Okay.”

He put the bucket down.

“Remember those Tracksuits dudes from the car chase?”

 

*

 

By the time he was done, they had emptied two coffee pots, ordered in three pizzas, and Lucky had rolled on his back with a dog smile and a full belly. Well – Kate deserved to hear not only the story, but also most of the deleted scenes Clint had deemed fit to keep from Hill and Fury. His throat was raspy by the end of it, and he drank a full mug of coffee as Katie sat there, looking a bit shocked as she let it all sink in.

“Wow,” she said, low.

“Yeah,” Clint approved, setting his mug down. _“Wow._ I mean – do you think that's _fair?”_

He felt a lot more lively than before – he suspected the pizzas and the comfortable couch had something to do with it. “Shit, he didn't even kill those people himself.”

“I don't know,” she answered cautiously. “He's responsible for the Hulk's damage, Clint. I'm not saying that it's fair; only that it's true. And Fury's right, you _do_ need a legal shield.”

“But what about the – the Young Avengers? Who's _your_ scapegoat?”

“We don't _cause_ collateral damage,” she said, almost apologetically. “Except when we team up with _you_ guys. You're working on an unparalleled scale.”

“What scale?” Clint said desperately. “Kate, we're just trying to help. All of us – we're all just trying to _help._ Why can't the Council just see that?”

She stared at him, for a long time, and he realized how idealistic, how _naive_ he had just sounded. He rubbed his face again.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

It was getting dark outside. Kate pressed her knees to her chest again.

“You know,” she said in an odd tone. “You spent two, maybe three hours telling me all this.”

He glanced up. “So what?”

“All that time, and you only talked about Banner.”

An uneasy feeling crept up between Clint's ribs.

“So what?” he repeated, in what he hoped was a flippant voice.

She shook her head, but she was still looking at him in this weird, scanning way.

“Nothing. It's just... what about Jessica? You haven't said a word about her.”

“Oh.”

He winced. “Well. It's not like there's much left to say.”

Kate's eyes widened. “She _dumped_ you?”

“I don't blame her,” Clint said, dejectedly. “She deserves a lot better, you know? I'm not...”

Her eyes narrowed. “You're not what?”

_Not a good person._

“Not that good at... _talking,_ I guess.”

She winced. “Ugh, talking.”

See? That was why he loved her.

“So, what you gonna do?” she said.

He gave her a wry half-smile. “About what? Jess? Banner? Everything else?”

“All of the above.”

Someone knocked at the door.

“I don't know,” Clint said, before calling, “come in” over his shoulder. “Fury told me to stay out of trouble and I...”

She wasn't listening to him at all. She was looking behind him with wide eyes.

He turned and he realized he had automatically assumed it would be Grills, or Simone, or Aimee at the door; or even Bruce, why not – except it would just be David since Kate didn't know him.

But she _did._ Clint only remembered it now – she was there at the debrief. And now they were gaping at each other with Clint Barton in the middle.

 

_Oh this is bad._

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB: Jessica's last two lines in this chapter are _straight out from the comic_. I kid you not.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I would really, really like to know what you thought of this one, what with SHIELD (and Jess and Kate and all)...


	14. Guy in a Santa hat

 

 

 

 

 

If Bruce had been wearing his leather jacket, the situation might have still been salvaged. He could have pretended he was coming down from the roof or up the stairs to deal with unfinished Avenger business. But he was wearing Clint's purple button-down with the sleeves rolled up, and his hair was obviously still damp from a shower. It was actually the most relaxed demeanor Clint had ever seen of his – sad that it had to be ruined by the fact the doctor had walked inside in all unsuspecting good faith, only to be the victim of Clint's bottomless stupidity once more.

“Whoa,” Clint said, scrambling upwards. “Um. Oops.”

Oops? _Oops? Really,_ Barton?

Banner's eyes flicked towards him, then back at Katie; then he just gave a small, fatalistic smile. Actually, he looked almost relieved things were out in the open. He came forward and reached out his hand.

“Hi,” he said. “You must be Clint's ward. It's nice to get to meet you properly.”

“I – ” she stammered, shaking his hand, obviously torn between her posh manners and her utter astonishment. “You're – excuse me, you're – ”

“Yes, I'm him,” he said, softly. “I'm sorry.”

For all his calm, he looked awfully tired,like he was already planning on leaving everything behind, and thinking _please, not again._ Clint saw the subtle change in Kate's stance, too, her back muscles tightening like his did in a stressful situation – the archer's reflex. And just like that, Clint wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, because _dammit –_ not her too. She was clever. Surely, she could tell that Bruce was not going to _attack_ her.

Then Kate's eyes suddenly widened in dawning realization. “Oh my God. The _Wizard.”_

_Oh great._

They both turned towards him, Kate like an angry rattlesnake, and Bruce's weariness temporarily chased away by mild surprise.

“You told her about me?”

“No,” Clint lied – Banner probably wanted to know if he had told her about _David,_ anyway, and Clint had kept _that_ secret safe _._

Well, until now.

“Uh, _yes_ he did,” Kate chimed in. “So _you're_ the guy steering his car!”

Bruce blinked a little, and a faint blush crept up his cheeks. Because – yeah, considering... past... _stuff,_ this sounded like a fairly blatant innuendo.

“You... told her about...?” he asked in a small, mortified voice.

 _“No,”_ Clint repeated hurriedly.

“Told me about what?” Kate asked, squinting at him.

“Nothing!”

“Look,” Bruce mumbled before Kate could call out Clint's obvious lie, “Miss Bishop – I don't want to be any trouble.”

“Oh, don't worry about that,” she said.

She leaned back against the couch and raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Next to Clint Barton, everyone else is _peanuts.”_

“Hey!”

“What? Like there's nothing wrong here?” She glanced at Bruce and said, “No offense, doc, but Brooklyn is _way_ too populated to handle Hulk and Mr. Shit Magnet under the same roof.”

“I know,” Bruce said.

His mild, defeated tone was what caused Clint to snap.

“ _Hey,”_ he growled at her, again. “You think you're the only one with a working brain in this room? Yes, I do happen to think sometimes. Yes, I know it's a risk, and I decided it was a risk _worth_ taking, and I'm a grown-ass man, and it's _my_ fucking building and _my_ fucking call _._ Alright? So you don't get to come here and – and – and go all _righteous_ on us. We got _plenty_ of that already.”

Kate looked at him with round eyes. Bruce looked a bit flabbergasted, too.

“Bruce, can you sit down?” Clint said dryly. “You're making me nervous.”

The scientist, who had been hovering awkwardly between the two of them, gingerly sat on the _very_ edge of a chair. That didn't really make for a much more relaxed atmosphere. Come to think of it, Clint had never seen him sink deep in a couch or anything like it, as though he was always getting ready to bolt on his feet and run.

The second he sat down, though, Kate got up.

“Where are you going?” Clint asked. “We're not done!”

“I've got a thing tonight,” she said, shrugging on her coat. “And I don't want to be involved in this anyway. As far as everyone's concerned, I was never here, I don't know a single thing, and you ate these three pizzas all by yourself.”

She turned away to leave and Clint couldn't hold it in.

“Katie, I almost left!”

She stopped and looked at him with suspicious eyes. “What?”

He couldn't let her walk out. Not again. He couldn't let her _leave_ like – like everyone else had. She was his _friend,_ dammit. Why couldn't she get it? Why couldn't she, of all people, just _get it?_

“I almost left to protect the people in this building,” he said, desperately. “And you were ready to beat me with my own bow for it, right? Yet I'm dangerous – you said it, _shit magnet,_ so – why should someone else be forced to leave _because_ it's dangerous? Just because it's not the same scale? Why can't we _all_ be allowed to stand and fight for what we have?”

Kate stared at him, her mouth forming words without any sound.

Eventually, she said, “Are you giving me the _tirade?”_

Clint blinked, then glanced at Bruce who looked as clueless at him. He coughed and asked, “What?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh my God, you're totally giving me the tirade. With violins in the background. You're thinking I'm _bailing out._ I can't believe this.”

“But – didn't you just say – ”

“I said what I had to say, but I know you've made _not listening to Kate_ into your own national sport. Jeez, if I'd given up on you every time you did something stupid, I wouldn't even remember your name by now.”

Clint just looked at her in complete astonishment. She rolled her eyes, then shook her head – and just turned away.

“I'll see your dumb ass for practice,” she said before vanishing down the stairs.

He stayed staring the door for a good three minutes after that. It was Bruce's faint stirring that made him snap out of it; the doctor was rubbing his arm in an awkward, stiff gesture.

“She, uh, seems like a great kid,” he said.

Clint felt all the tension burst out of him like a blown balloon.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “She won't tell, I know – I trust her. I'm really sorry.”

“No, don't – don't apologize,” Bruce said, shaking his head. “This is – good, actually. This is a good thing. You can't... _bury_ yourself in secrecy, because of me.”

Clint snorted. “You're acting like my life was a Disney movie before I met you. Didn't you hear what she said?”

Bruce smiled at the carpet, and didn't answer. Clint got up and picked up the pizza boxes to throw them in the trash. “Weren't you coming to tell me something? Before the whole Kate Gate?”

“Um – yes.” Bruce coughed. “But I don't – ”

“Come up on the roof with me, then.”

Bruce blinked up at him. “What?”

“Just come on,” Clint said, grabbing his other jacket and kicking the old one further away. “It'll do us both some good.”

Lucky raised his ears at that and got up with a happy bark. Clint grinned and scratched him behind the ears. “See?” he told Bruce. “All the cool kids are doing it.”

 

*

 

It was the first good idea he had had in a long while.

Most of the neighbors were already up there, with pink noses and pink cheeks like lovely little dolls – even that weird, gloomy guy from the first floor – puffing little clouds in the cold air. There was no ominous Quinjet ready to engulf them, no vengeful agents out for their blood, and, praise the Lord, nobody was wearing a tracksuit. The delicious smell of grilling steaks tickled Clint's nostrils and sent Lucky into a frenzy.

“Hey, David,” Simone greeted. “We haven't seen you in a while.”

Bruce looked a bit dazed at finding himself here once more, but he quickly gathered himself together and shook her hand. “Hello, ah – Simone. Nice to see you.”

Yeah. This was definitely a nice change from giant ants and stinking sewers and fever nightmares.Next to him, Bruce looked like he was thinking the same thing; Aimee gave him a smile and a wave, and he answered with a smile of his own. Clint noticed he was wearing his glasses again. He must have picked them up on the coffee table, where he had left them the day before...

...God, had that been really _less_ than twenty-four hours ago?

The air had this tingly taste of Christmas, even though December had only just started. Some people were wearing Santa hats; it turned out the old lady from the second floor was handing them out like raffle tickets, and while Bruce managed to refuse with a polite smile, Clint was ganged up into crowning himself in red and white cotton. And the pompom was constantly falling before his eyes, too.

“I don't even do Christmas,” he complained to his neighbors, who only grinned and went on their way. Jerks.

He caught Bruce's little laugh and scowled at him, but then kept the hat on. _What?_ He just wanted not to disappoint the old lady sitting in a corner – with a poodle Lucky was starting to get dangerously interested in. Clint knelt down to feed his dog a half-grilled steak, which effectively distracted him from his furry soulmate. Raw meat was good for dogs, right? Clint owed him a few treats anyway, after leaving him all alone for a few days.

When he got up, Simone was handing him a burger; he thanked her but gave it to Bruce since the pizzas and the wings were unwilling to make some room in his stomach. The scientist took it and considered it with a strange focus, like he had done last time, like he just wasn't _used_ to it anymore.

Whatever _'it'_ was.

“Been a hell of a week,” Clint mumbled for only him to hear.

“You could say that,” Bruce answered in the same tone.

He looked like he'd finally decided that the burger was nothing deadly, and took a bite. They stayed side by side for some time, looking at Clint's neighbors – _their_ neighbors – chatting away around them. They let it wash over them, and wash them from the chaos, the pressure of these last few days.

Clint guessed they tended to forget that was how the world was supposed to be.

“Katie's not going to cause any trouble, you know,” he murmured.

“Yes,” Bruce said softly. “I know.”

He did look like he believed it, which reassured Clint a little. He thought of what the scientist had said in the sewers, about wanting to protect this place as much as him. He had grown to consider Tyler's apartment his, after all. And while it was a really bad thing, it was also pretty good.

Then the doctor looked up and asked hesitantly, “...you don't _do_ Christmas?”

Clint shrugged, chasing the pompom from his face. “You know how it is. When you're constantly on the road, holidays don't mean much.”

Bruce's gaze was questioning so Clint said, “I grew up in a circus. Didn't know that?” He mimed a bow and went on in a fake French accent, _“The Amazing Hawkeye._ That was my main act.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Bruce looked astonished and also maybe a little awed, which surprised Clint. Carnies weren't exactly on top of his list of cool stuff, but he guessed he could see the appeal. Sort of. As long as you stayed on the good side of the shiny lights and the velvet curtains.

“It poked a few holes in my education, I guess,” he shrugged. “Not like you, with your hundred doctorates and degrees.”

“I only got four,” Bruce protested.

“Oh, only four, do _pardon_ me.”

The scientist looked confused, like the impressive aspect of higher education made as little sense to him as the magic of the circus made to Clint. Then he coughed and muttered, “About that.”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“That's – what I wanted to ask. Would you... mind, if I did a bit of research? In my... kitchen?”

“Why are you asking me?” Clint said, puzzled.

“You're the landlord.”

“Is it gonna blow up?”

 _“No,”_ Bruce said, looking a bit offended.

“Then _why_ are you asking?”

“It's your building.”

“It's _your_ apartment.”

Clint stared at him and got the feeling that this wasn't just about landlord's responsibility and innocuous chemistry experiments.

“...Bruce, what are you working on?”

The doctor gave him a little smile and looked away. “You know I was originally called in to work on the Tesseract, right?”

Clint stared at him.

Then his eyes widened. “You _kept_ the research?”

“I memorized it,” Bruce murmured. “Long enough to write it all down after Manhattan.”

He took another bite of his burger. “It was on the computer you got back. And I'd like to run a few simulations. Because if what we found in the sewers is anything to go by, SHIELD might already be too late.”

“What we _destroyed_ in the sewers.”

Bruce shook his head.

“Don't you think we got in a bit too easily?” he murmured. “I think there _was_ something big there. Something which involved Tesseract energy _and_ gamma radiation. And I think it was moved before we came in.”

The hideout _had_ seemed eerily empty, with no more than a few goons to guard the doors which weren't deadlocked. And it made sense; as long as Clint was the only one interested in the Family business, he could still be scared away. But then Bruce had saved him back in that alley, and the Hulk was something the Tracksuits couldn't handle. Not even Madame Masque was on a true Avenger's scale.

So they must have moved out.

But Bruce Banner was after them now. This ant thing had imperceptibly become his own private case, regardless of SHIELD's orders on the subject. Clint had been wrong to assume the scientist had submitted to Fury's whims just because of a little blackmail. Bruce had learned long ago to keep moving even when he was being crushed.

“Hey, what's with all the muttering?” Aimee called out.

They brutally straightened up – Clint only realized then that his neighbors' conversations had started to sound like they were coming through a huge body of water. He had forgotten where they were for a minute, and he hadn't realized Bruce and him were standing so close.

The scientist gave Aimee a small smile and a few casual words, and while he was looking away, Clint suddenly remembered their kiss. He realized, then, that he had been thinking about it all day without admitting it to himself – always tiptoeing around it, not talking about it, not to Fury or Jess or Kate.

It might be cruel to think so, but there was nothing attractive about Bruce. Scrawny, weary nerds weren't anyone's type, even when they _didn't_ turn into a giant green rage monster. And Clint had never doubted his sexuality, either. He had grown up in a background where preferences didn't matter; and when there was no closet at all to hide in, it was even easier to realize that you were straight, blandly straight without even a question mark to spice things up. This was one of the few things Clint had never gotten worked up about. It was evident, like the color of his hair or his favorite food. A detail.

Clint remembered Bruce's outraged, then desperate, then horrified look. It hadn't been a detail to him. He had been deeply upset – deeply _hurt –_ that Clint could be so careless as to force himself on him, on a mere whim, when obviously even the most remote physical contact was loaded with tremendous meaning to someone like him.

_Dummy, Barton._

“Knock yourself out,” he muttered.

Bruce blinked at him. “What?”

“Do your research, man. I'll cover for you if needed.”

“You're suspended, you shouldn't get involved with – ”

“It's hardly about my _career,”_ Clint snorted. “If we did miss something, everyone's at risk. You're saying that we probably did. And if you can't be trusted with this, I don't know who can.”

Bruce just smiled at him. When it wasn't weary or bitter or sarcastic, he _did_ have a nice smile.

A drop of water fell on the cement, then several others. People started squeaking all over the place and hastily packing their things to retreat inside; Bruce crumpled his paper wrap and followed Clint down the stairs, saying good night to Simone and Aimee and even Grills as they hurtled past them.

He went down the first flight of stairs to get to his own landing, and he was fumbling with his keys when Clint called to him from upstairs.

“Hey, Bruce.”

The scientist looked up at him.

“I don't care what SHIELD says,” Clint said in a low voice, even though the staircase was empty now. “Those seven dead guys, they're on _my_ record.”

Bruce went extremely still.

“There is no debate,” Clint warned him sternly. “Fuck whatever reasoning you can come up with. They are _mine.”_

The scientist stayed silent and unmoving for another minute. Then, his right hand turned under the doorknob, opening his door with a resounding _click._ He pushed it open, looking like he was going to leave without a word.

But then, he said, softly, sadly, “Good night, Clint.”

He vanished inside and closed the door behind him.

“'Night,” Clint muttered, alone and way too late.

The pompom of his hat slid before his eyes again; but this time, he just let it dangle there.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As usual, if you could drop a comment, it would make my day. ^^


	15. Cross the line

 

 

 

 

 

So _maybe_ Clint had left his door open, but it wasn't _wide_ open, just ajar so he could hear any suspicious noises. He was pleased to wake up early enough – his circadian rhythm apparently back on track – and if he drowned his cereal in milk so there wouldn't be any crunching noises in his ears, well, that was his business. Right?

It was Monday, so Simone was taking her kids to school. Clint heard them stomp down the stairs. Frost stars on the window. Very blue sky now. Steps outside. Grills? No. Aimee? Yes, Aimee, bike messengering away even in the thick snow. Her girlfriend saying bye in a sleepy voice, then closing the door again. A small groaning sound – that was Lucky, a heap of fur near the radiator. Beeping. Pager? No – suspended. Beeping again. Pager? Pager. Who was – oh. Stark. Asking about Clint's grounding. He would just have to hack SHIELD if he wanted to know. Heavy steps outside – now that was Grills. The smell of snow when he opened the door leading to the roof. That guy was crazy. A creak? A creak. A door opening. Not Aimee not Grills not Simone.

Bruce?

No. Too far away. The old woman downstairs, with her poodle. Lucky raised his ears, then settled back down with a little whine.

Clint took a deep breath and got up. A bit of practice would do him some good. He picked up his bow and a regular quiver, light on his hip, not like those steel caskets Hill had given him.

_Those were for Banner._

Clint took a deep breath and shifted his feet in the stance he had been taught by Jacques Duquesne at the circus. Back muscles tighten and lock.

_He's a threat._

He opened his fingers and let the arrow fly. _Thud_ an inch away from the center of the target. He exhaled, then took another one.

_Go read his file; maybe it'll clear your mind._

The arrow fled between his fingers and hit the target _thud_ an inch away on the other side. He took another one.

_It's not about guilt. It's about paperwork._

_Thud_ an inch above the mark. He exhaled again, then took another one.

_Good night, Clint._

_Thud –_ and it was a bull's eye.

Clint sighed, then took another arrow and hit the middle of the target again, then again, then again, then a stain on the wall, then a crumb on the floor, then the bobble of his Santa hat which didn't suffer for it in the slightest.

And with every arrow, he was building up a plan in his mind.

It was probably impossible, _– thud –_ because he would need help, _– thud –_ and he wasn't sure many people would answer his call, _– thud –_ wasn't sure whether it was even conceivable, not when there were so many other problems to take care of. But he had to try, right?

_Thud._

He had to try.

 

*

 

Three days later, there were still no signs of life from Banner. When the delivery guy knocked on his door at noon, Clint decided that he should at least check if the scientist was feeding himself. He grabbed the pizza and went one floor down in his socks.

“Bruce?”

No answer. He turned the doorknob to peek inside – and pushed the door wide open in shock.

Tyler's place was hardly recognizable. Two dozens of little glasses were in a line on the counter, with liquids of various colors settling there. Lit wicks had been plunged into half of them, burning slowly without smoke. Water was simmering on the stove; and sheets of paper covered in narrow-written equations were _swarming_ the table and floor and couch, leaving only a small space for Bruce to sit cross-legged with his brand new laptop on his thighs. His furious typing came to a sudden halt and his head snapped up when Clint got in; when he saw who it was, his shoulders relaxed. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a wince.

“Clint,” he mumbled. “What time is it?”

“Past noon,” Clint said, dumbfounded. Then he added, “On Wednesday,” just in case.

He closed the door behind him and trod in carefully. “...Have you worked all night?”

“Think so,” Bruce answered with a deep yawn. His nose wrinkled and he asked, “What's that smell?”

“Uh, either one of your weird-ass experiments, or this pizza I brought with me.”

A famished spark lit up in Bruce's eye. “Pizza?”

“Don't you have work to do?” Clint grinned at him.

He didn't expect Bruce to take him seriously, but the scientist actually gave his laptop a guilty look.

 _“Bruce,”_ Clint said, a bit appalled. “I was kidding. Take a break, man.”

“Uh – yeah,” Bruce mumbled. “You're probably right.”

He got up and stretched like a cat, making his spine crack in a rather shocking way. He was barefoot, still wearing his purple shirt and loose beige slacks; he had pushed his glasses up and they were now tangled up in his curly hair. Clint dug out a pizza slicer from one of the drawers and opened the box.

“Got anything yet?” he asked.

“Roughly,” the scientist mumbled. “I'm trying out every combination on paper. If we're really up against Tesseract-powered gamma rays, regular dampeners won't do the trick.”

“And you got those where?” Clint asked, nodding at the little glasses.

Bruce smiled and took a slice. “That's not... It's an experiment I've wanted to carry out for a while. Just a bit of... of fun.”

_Fun._

Even though Bruce hadn't slept at all, Clint had never seen him looking so... _not_ weary,for once. Scientific research apparently had rejuvenating properties. It was astounding how deeply and completely the scientist had plunged into his work, like he had been reining himself in from it, for months on end. He must miss it dearly indeed, on the run, on the streets – and on the field, too.

“Thanks for the pizza,” Bruce said.

Clint had never seen anyone eat so fast.

“...Want some more?”

“No, I'm good.”

The scientist's nose wrinkled again. “Sorry – it smells a bit musty in here. I'll open a window.”

“You sure you don't want another slice?” Clint asked as Bruce zigzagged between his papers to reach the other side of the room.

“I don't eat that much on my own,” he answered. “But try asking me after an incident.”

He cracked the window open and a gush of freezing air came in, ruffling his curls. “Ah,” he sighed. “Better.”

Clint stared at him for a minute, then down at the quivering sheets which looked about ready to fly away.

“Your papers...” he warned.

“It's okay,” Bruce said with a wave of his hand. “Most of it's on the computer anyway.”

Clint took in the huge mass of equations and tried not to think about what _most of it_ could mean in this case. Experimentally, he picked up a paper and frowned at it. The handwriting was nearly illegible, and the equations looked like a foreign language altogether. He couldn't recognize one fucking sign. Was this even math?

“You know,” Bruce said softly. “This is my first real winter in a while.”

Clint didn't find anything to say to that. He put the paper back on the counter and coughed a little.

“I'm... going out, if you need anything.”

Bruce shook his head, looking pensively out the open window at the clouded sky.

“No, I'm good,” he repeated.

Clint looked at him. For all of Bruce's energy, there were still dark rings under his eyes. Wind rushed in again and sent a few papers flying, blowing out half the wicks in the little glasses. Clint glanced at Bruce's bare feet and open collar, then remembered the scientist couldn't catch a cold. Couldn't catch anything at all.

“You should probably close that window,” he still said.

The doctor didn't react.

“...Right,” Clint mumbled.

He turned away. “I'm going. Keep the pizza. Try to use it for food rather than experiments, okay?”

 

*

 

Clint had spent most of the past weeks sleeping during the daytime to keep watch at night, then sleeping during the daytime to recover from ants attacks, then sleeping during the daytime to recover from fucked-up ops in the sewers at night. Needless to say, it felt weird to walk in broad daylight on the busy streets of Brooklyn. It was as though the 1st of December had kicked off some kind of shopping fever. The streets were crowded with people in Santa hats, marveling at the Christmas lights or sometimes mocking them a little. Clint had never been big on Christmas spirit, but he guessed it was a good thing it existed. If only for the kids.

As he turned a corner, he came across a collapsed building surrounded in police tape. _Do not cross the line._ He clearly remembered shooting an explosive arrow at it during the first Ants Incident. Had it been enough to make it collapse? The thought made his stomach churn, but people in the street didn't seem to notice the wreck. Clint guessed they were used to this kind of stuff since Manhattan; and it would probably take a lot more than a few ants to cancel Christmas. Life went on for those left alive, and plunged its roots even deeper in reaction to the strangeness of this new, stormy world. People were closing ranks around what was left to protect. Family. Tradition. Holidays.

Still wasn't Clint's thing.

And when he passed by a guy selling hot chestnuts, he remembered, at the first sniff, the real reason he had mixed feelings about Christmas. It reminded him of the _circus._ Everything – from the shining lights to the excited crowd, not to mention the smell of cheap food, the heat, the cold – was reminiscent of big tops and sawdust-covered floors. He remembered the shy look of awe in Bruce's eyes upon learning he was a carnie.

Clint knew that look. The look of kids who had grown up too fast and never _did_ get to go to the circus.

He guessed Bruce didn't have many fond memories of Christmas, either. Having not actually _been_ there during the mutual introductions of the first Avengers, Clint had never gotten around to reading the scientist's file. But the mill had brought him bits and pieces, enough to get the picture about his family album. In many ways, Bruce's life was a lot like Clint's.

And in many others, it couldn't have been more different.

“Clint,” someone called.

Clint looked up and smiled a little. Even in civilian clothes, Steve Rogers couldn't have stood out more – his big, azure hoodie failed to conceal completely the athletic lines of his body, and he was still a head taller than anyone else. But it was his aura which really gave him away – to Clint anyway. Steve Rogers always awoke in him the somehow frantic need to do good. To act right.

Well. He was trying his best right now.

“Cap,” he said a bit nervously. “Thanks for coming.”

“You said it was really important,” Steve said, waving his pager. “I don't have much time.”

Clint almost asked whether he was doing his Christmas shopping, then realized Steve Rogers had probably no one left to shop _for_. So he just shut up.

“Time for a drink?” he asked instead.

Steve shook his head. “Time to walk down the street. I have to go back to the Helicarrier in fifteen minutes.”

Clint swallowed. The Captain had really gone out of his way to meet him. Suddenly, he wasn't so sure of himself anymore. He actually felt like a starstruck fan, anxious to present the object of his adoration with a poorly done work which would get rejected without so much as a glance.

He took a deep breath. The Madripoor incident must have gotten him at least a bit of credit in Steve's opinion. Right? And here they were now, anyway. It wasn't like he had much to lose.

“If this is about your suspension,” Steve said, “you should know – ”

“I wouldn't have made you come for _that,”_ Clint cut off. “It's not about me.”

Steve frowned. “Then what?”

Clint swallowed again. “It's – going to get a bit personal.”

The frown deepened. “Shoot.”

“Okay. Just...” Clint forced himself to look Steve in the eyes. “Have you ever killed someone?”

 

*

 

Fifteen minutes later, Steve's pager started beeping, but he silenced it and kept looking at Clint in earnest. His blue eyes were unmoving, as though he was trying to read his teammate's mind. Clint guessed Cap wasn't used to him taking any initiative, especially not on _this_ particular field, and the thorough scan made him feel even more uneasy and unsure this could work.

But then Steve said slowly, “No, you're right.”

Clint felt his starstruck heart beat faster and instantly proceeded to belittle his own idea, like Steve had obviously just anticipated. “Look – I know it sounds like unnecessary complications. I know what we have is working and that's a good reason not to bother – ”

“No,” Steve repeated calmly. “I do agree with you. But it can't be just the both of us.”

“Yeah, I know,” Clint said hurriedly. “But I can't... I mean, if _I'm_ the one asking, people won't...”

He coughed awkwardly, and went on, “Who do you think might join you on this?”

“Well,” Steve mumbled. “Stark has his own problems, but... I will ask him. Logan won't care either way; that's not telling us if he'll help or not, though. Spiderman's a definite no, since he doesn't even officially exist. Spider-Woman...”

“She'll say no,” Clint said.

The super-soldier gave him a shrewd look, but didn't comment. “I'll ask her,” he only said. “And Mockingbird, too.”

Clint nodded, feeling dizzy with relief and maybe a bit of incredulity. “Thank you, Cap.”

“Don't thank me.”

Steve looked up at the cloudy sky. “It's not easy for me, Clint. Such problems would have made no sense. Back _then,_ I mean.”

“But you were the only one in the spotlight back then,” Clint said.

For a split second, he feared he'd been insensitive; but then Steve smiled at him.

“Well,” he repeated, _“that's_ one thing I definitely don't miss.”

His pager beeped again. “I've really got to go.”

He was turning to walk away when Clint called him back, thinking about what Banner had said. “Hey – Cap – stay on the lookout, okay?”

The super-soldier frowned at him. “For what?”

“I don't really know,” Clint said nervously. “Stuff. Just... keep an eye out.”

“I always do,” Steve said.

The next second, he was gone. And Clint was alone in a Brooklyn-sized circus, feeling like he was nine years old again.

 

*

 

Banner's weary look was back with a vengeance when Clint got home. He hadn't touched the rest of the pizza, now dead and cold in its box; but he had made space on the counter to brew himself tea. For now, he was just sitting at the table, looking dejected, with water starting to smoke behind him. He didn't glance up when Clint came in.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” the scientist mumbled.

He looked a bit spaced out.

“Something to do with your research?”

Bruce shook his head. “No, I'm... I was taking a break. It's fine.”

There was a pause.

“Actually,” he murmured. “Your ward came back.”

Clint's eyebrows shot up. _“What?”_

“I thought you should know.”

_“Katie?”_

Clint groped around for a stool and sat down. “But what did she want?”

“I'm not sure. I thought she came to see you, but we ended up talking for a few minutes.”

“About what?”

_What do you think, dummy?_

Bruce shrugged wryly, then took off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Nothing... new. She's really worried about you.”

It wasn't really difficult to guess why Kate was worried.

Or what she had asked of Bruce.

It was a small miracle the scientist hadn't run away before Clint came back, actually. He looked at Bruce for a long minute, and he had no fucking idea what to say. He couldn't apologize for Kate's actions. Hell, he understood. If it had been her, Clint would've probably gone to Banner and told him to fuck off before his beloved ward got hurt.

No, that wasn't true. He wouldn't have dared, because Kate usually knew what she was doing. He shivered slightly despite himself and Bruce looked a bit alarmed.

“Oh – the window. I forgot.”

It had been left ajar indeed. Clint hadn't noticed, but it did explain the polar temperature in the scientist's apartment. The latter got up a bit awkwardly.

“So – want some tea?” he asked as he crossed the room. “I can make some more.”

He had sorted out his papers a little, but the room was still in quite a mess. He hadn't turned on the lights; the fading day was slowly darkening the entire place, and his laptop was where he had left it by the old couch, casting a spot of blue glow on the floor. It was all in all a really glum kind of untidy, like Bruce was just squatting here; like he hadn't realized he could settle down.

Or maybe he tried not to let himself believe it.

“Or coffee, if you'd like,” he was saying. “I think Mr. Tyler – was it? – actually left some in a cupboard somewhere.”

Clint got up and padded softly across the room.

Bruce managed to get the window shut. “Oh,” he mumbled. “It's snowing again.” He turned and began again, “Do you...” but his voice trailed off when he saw Clint so close.

Clint put his hand on Bruce's shoulder. “Look –”

He'd gotten closer because he wanted to say something, he knew. About Kate, or Bruce's research. Or Bruce's apartment. Something comforting, something funny. Something _nice._ But he couldn't remember.

They stayed face to face for a few completely silent heartbeats. Bruce blinked a few times, his eyes darting across Clint's face; it was difficult to tell if he was just very confused or actually beginning to panic. Clint came even closer, then stopped.

But he was too close now.

Bruce swallowed nervously.

“Are you going t...”

His voice died off in an inaudible murmur, and Clint felt the breath of it on his lips, just before he closed in.

 

 

His hand slid up the scientist's shoulder, all the way up to his neck; he put his other hand against the cold glass near Bruce's head. Mist was starting to form under his palm already, while the thick snowflakes kept falling outside the window.

 

 _Nothing serious,_ he thought.

 

But this time, he didn't believe himself.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sweats* ...please... tell me... what you thought?


	16. Reckless

 

 

 

 

 

 

For a precious second, nothing more happened.

 

The snow outside enveloped them in a soft, thick shell of white silence; the room smelled faintly of winter and tea. Kissing people had always been somewhat of a blank place for Clint. Like a second of shock, only drawn out in time and space. As long as his mouth pressed against Bruce's, there were no thoughts in his head. No consequences. No worries. Absolutely nothing.

Then Bruce pulled back and the bubble popped; and an awful ruckus swarmed Clint's mind. He blinked a few times. The scientist was staring fixedly at him, with something wild in his eyes like he wasn't sure how he was meant to react, and it terrified him.

“Uh – are you – ” he breathed. “Did you – ”

“I'm sorry,” Clint muttered.

That was probably the lamest, saddest, most _terrible_ thing he could have said. He screwed his eyes shut with a wince. He was _so_ out of his depth here.

“I... I don't know why I'm doing this,” he tried again. “I have no _fucking_ idea. I'll stop. If you want me to stop. I'll stop.”

He shook his head. “God, I'm so sorry.”

“Stop,” Bruce murmured.

He took a deep breath and gripped the edge of the window behind him with bloodless fingers. “Stop saying _sorry.”_

“Sorry,” Clint said.

He let out a small, awkward laugh and Bruce smiled a little, but it was wan and shaky and it vanished at once.

“Clint, uh,” he mumbled nervously. “I don't... I don't really know what to do here.”

“Yeah, I know, I know, thinking really _isn't_ my forte in – ”

“No – you don't get it,” Bruce cut off. “It's... This just – doesn't... _happen_ to me anymore. Doesn't fit in the equation.” He sounded almost apologetic. “You know? When I say I don't know what to do...”

He put his glasses back on and Clint sincerely hoped it wasn't to shield himself from further assault.

“...I literally don't _know._ I forgot.”

“You seemed to remember enough last time.”

Clint couldn't believe he had just said that. He couldn't _believe_ he had just said _that._ What a total _douchebag._

Bruce gripped the edge of the window again. “Last time,” he said with a self-deprecating little laugh. “I was... at first I wasn't sure whether you were making fun of me, and then... it didn't even matter. All I could think was...” He gave an awfully wry smile. “... _'this is the last time you'll ever get to do this.'”_

Clint was speechless.

He remembered thinking about it – about Bruce's kiss, frantic and desperate like a last kiss indeed, like something unhoped-for.Clint knew by now how insensitive of him it had been to come onto Banner on the mere pretext of adrenaline high. So what had happened to these reasonable thoughts? How could he have done it _again?_

“So,” Bruce mumbled, dejectedly. “Is it pity? Or something more... like Tony?”

Clint's face must have been a sight to remember since the scientist gave a small, joyless laugh. “He didn't kiss me,” he said. “But it was probably on his list after zappers and pointy things. Wouldn't surprise me.”

“I'm not a thrill-seeker,” Clint murmured, throat dry.

Bruce looked at him with sad, distant eyes. He was opening his mouth to say something when the water bubbled up and boiled over the saucepan, making both men jump.

“Shit,” Clint hissed, hurrying to the stove to take the pan off the hissing hotplate. “Bruce – you know you have a kettle here, right?”

“Uh,” Bruce said, in a spaced out voice. “I didn't think about it.”

While Clint was busy burning his hands, he heard the doctor move across the room and he became very, very _still –_ but then he heard a clicking sound from the keyboard and he understood Bruce had picked up his computer.

At the same second, his pager buzzed on his belt. But he had other problems at the moment – he dumped the pan on the counter, sloshing himself with _more_ scalding water, _idiot._ When he finally looked up, trying desperately to think of something to say that would not be another apology, Bruce was sitting on the couch and lacing his shoes.

Clint blinked. “You're... you're going out,” he said.

“Uh – yeah,” Bruce mumbled without looking at him, nodding towards his computer. “I was waiting for the theoretical results and...”

He pushed the computer with his foot for the screen to face Clint, but of course the equations didn't mean shit to him.

“Tesseract, gamma rays, I can cancel them separately,” Bruce explained mechanically. “But I'm going to need specific equipment if I want to rough out a counter-product to the both of them together.”

Tony Stark would have made such a speech sound grand and threatening and fascinating at the same time. Bruce only sounded milder and sadder than ever, like his very voice was hunching in on itself. “Math says it's possible, so. Every second counts.”

He got up and shrugged on his leather jacket. Clint watched him mutely, then realized it was Bruce's place, and he couldn't stay unless the scientist gave him his keys or something. He left the steaming pan on the counter and slowly walked across the room to get out in the landing.

Bruce locked the door behind them, then stayed there with his back turned, like he was gathering his courage to say something. Clint stayed there, waiting in increasing tension. He wanted to ask, _are we good?_

But he was so scared of the answer that he just chickened out.

“Well,” he said. “See – see you, then.”

He got up the stairs, forcing himself to walk naturally and failing – it felt like his spine had been replaced with a steel rod and Bruce's gaze was setting it on fire. When he turned, though, the scientist was still facing away with his hand still on the doorknob.

Clint closed his own door; and then he slammed his forehead against it, and just stayed there.

 

_Fuck._

 

*

 

“Hey, Hawkguy.”

“Yo,” Clint said. “Needed some air.”

Grills was there, of course. Ever-present Grills, out in the open air. Flipping his little pieces of meat like he just didn't care. Clint was glad for the company, but it also felt like he was alone anyway. He leaned on the edge of the building with a deep sigh.

“You look like you could use a beer,” his neighbor said.

Clint turned to him with a faint smile. “Tell you what,” he said. “That's the best offer I've had all day.”

He grabbed the bottle Grills threw him and popped the cap off. The long swig of bitter, cold alcohol felt good. But not _very_ good.

“Problems with your lady?” Grills asked.

Clint almost laughed. Almost.

“Now what makes you think that?” he muttered.

“You got the face of a man with problems is all.”

“Can't argue with that,” Clint mumbled, taking another swig.

“She left you?”

Clint shook his head in a noncommittal way. He remembered how Bruce had looked; and then what Jessica had told him. _You're a bad person, Clint Barton._

“She was right,” he murmured.

He took his head between his hands. “There's this thing I keep doing and I... I don't even want it. It's not _me.”_

He gripped the edge of the roof and let it dig in his fingers. _“_ So why can't I _stop?_ Why do I always feel like...”

His voice trailed off. Even now, he could feel it; something soft, something instinctive which urged him to trail his fingers through Banner's hair, to pull him close and breathe him in. It couldn't be explained. It just _was._

Grills remained immured in his silent worship of the Grill God for a little while.

“You're not making much sense, Hawkguy,” he said eventually.

“I _know,”_ Clint groaned in frustration. “God. I know.”

“You're hurting her, is what you're saying?”

“I'm done hurting _her,”_ Clint mumbled. “At least I hope so.”

He finished his beer. “Got another one ?”

Grills tossed it without even watching. He had pretty good aim.

“This thing you're doing,” he said. “It's that bad?”

Clint didn't answer.

“Tell yourself you don't wanna do it no more then,” his neighbor said. “Tell yourself it's wrong.”

“It's not _wrong,”_ Clint protested vividly, “it's – ”

He cut himself off. What was he saying?

“...I dunno,” he finished miserably.

Grills raised an eyebrow at him.

“You gonna do it again?”

He must think they were talking about cheating, or something. And Clint guessed it did match, in a sense. Except it couldn't qualify as cheating. For God's sake, no one in their right mind would cheat on anyone with Bruce Banner. _Bruce Banner!_ And seriously, if Clint really had suddenly turned gay, wouldn't his logical choice be people like Steve Rogers? Or, fuck, even _Logan? Anyone_ but...

And there he was again, thinking shit. This was not about him,for Christ's sake. This was about Bruce and how this bullshit was the last thing he needed in his life. He had looked so distraught – so deeply, awfully _confused._ He had thought Clint was mocking him. Or patronizing him. Or using him for a kick.

And indeed, why else would anyone kiss _him?_

It would have been just as illogical, as stupid, as dangerous to like a _female_ Banner. The doctor was right; he was untouchable. Unlovable. Regardless of his gender and his bland looks, such things simply weren't supposed to _happen_ around him.

Yet Clint was drawn to him, while Steve Rogers' perfect physique left him politely cold. He wasn't gay.

He just liked Bruce.

“Whatcha gonna _do_ about it?” Grills repeated.

Clint raked his fingers through his hair.

“I don't know.” He swallowed and repeated, “I don't know. It's so fucked-up, man.”

“Talk it out,” Grills suggested.

“What?

“Not with me. The people who's got to do with this. Talk it out with 'em.”

“Well... _they..._ don't want me to apologize.”

“Then don't.” Grills shrugged. “Just talk.”

And then, for no apparent reason – maybe he was just desperate to think about something else – Clint remembered his pager had buzzed, and he hadn't checked it until then.

He hurriedly plucked it from his pocket, hoping it wouldn't be something along the lines of _come right now, you're our only hope._

It wasn't; he was still suspended, after all. But the words still made something flutter in his stomach.

 

_Iron Man's in._

 

_– Steve_

 

It was at this very second, when he lowered his eyes to check his pager, that the shot was fired.

Clint's body ducked on its own volition – but the bullet wasn't for him.

It went clear through Grills' leg and most likely severed the femoral vein judging by the rich, arterial blood which flooded the fabric of his jeans.

Grills let out a raucous howl and fell on his side. Clint registered a distant noise from down the stairs – shattering glass? – but he didn't lose a second over it. He should have scanned his surroundings, looked for the sniper which might be still there, get a clear view of him; but Gil's blood was gushing out on the cement, so Clint crouched down instead and pressed on the wound with both hands. His neighbor let out a moan through gritted teeth; but Clint had to stop the bleeding. Crimson red oozed between his fingers, slid inside the tiny wrinkles of his knuckles.

“Hawkguy – ” Grills panted.

“It's alright,” Clint said. “It's alright.”

“I've – I've been _shot – ”_

“Yeah, man. But you'll be fine. It's okay. It's just the leg. And hey, next month's rent's on me. Get-better present. How about that?”

Clint's rambling didn't seem to reach his shocked neighbor. Sweat was beading on Grills' stubble, and he looked paler already. Clint pressed harder, but it felt like he only managed to squeeze more blood out. The puddle of red was growing and _growing._

“I'm calling 911,” he said. “It's okay, Gil. It's all gonna be okay.”

He couldn't call 911. He couldn't move his hands for even a second. Grills let out a whine and Clint thought, _he's going to die._ If he didn't do a temporary tourniquet or something – but he couldn't, he _couldn't,_ the second he stopped pressing on that wound – God, they were chatting just _seconds_ ago, and why would anyone shoot Grills _in the leg?_ It was obviously the work of a talented sniper; Hawkeye could tell. It had to be Masque's men. So why not shoot _him?_ And why not in the head?

“Must be that old lady downstairs,” he panted. “Guess she was _really_ pissed at you after all. What'd you do again? Stepped on her poodle?”

Blood was overflowing his fingers, like he was pressing on a sponge full of grenadine, and what a lame image –

“Come on,” Clint said, “what's the name of that dog? Never did remember. You're great at names. Right? What's the poodle's name?”

He could feel the vein throbbing through the fabric as Grills' heart pumped his own blood out even faster in his complete panic.

“Come _on,”_ Clint begged, _cajoled,_ “come on, Gil, just answer me this, just tell me this, the dog's name, what's the dog's name?”

“Lucky,” Grills muttered.

“Almost there, big guy – that's _my_ dog, but we're getting close. Come on, focus – ”

“Lucky there's a doctor around,” his neighbor completed.

Clint's gaze snapped up and there he was, panting and disheveled. Oh thank _God,_ there he was.

“Bruce!” he choked, “Bruce, _Bruce,_ we've gotta cut the flow or – ”

“Yes,” Bruce mumbled, shrugging his jacket off. “I got this, just – ”

He twisted his purple shirt at the shoulder's seam, and ripped a large band all along the sleeve. He did it once, twice, then crouched next to Clint. Clint looked down at his own hands. They were drowned in dark blood. So horribly _warm._

Obviously, the doc had done emergency tourniquets before. His gestures were sharp and quick; his eyes dark and focused behind his glasses. Clint could do nothing, could only press down on the wound with all his strength. _Come on, Gil. Come on._ This couldn't happen. This made no sense at all. Clint had wrecked the Tracksuits' hideout, sure; they could have killed him as a revenge, they could have even killed his neighbors like they originally planned to – but to shoot _Grills_ in the fucking _leg?_

“Alright,” Bruce panted. “You can let go. I did my best but he lost too much blood.”

He grabbed his discarded jacket and covered Grills' chest – it couldn't be of much use, because Clint's neighbor had to be at least twice the doctor's weight, but the gesture alone seemed to help him a bit. Bruce then pushed Clint back so he could tuck an empty pack of beer under Grills' ankles as to elevate his legs. Clint knew it was for shock and it should have been his first reflex, too, but his hands were covered in his friend's blood and he couldn't stop staring in space.

“Clint?” the scientist said, in a gentler voice. “Are you okay? We've got to call 911.”

“Pager,” Clint blurted out.

Bruce blinked. “What?”

“Hill's pager. Do you still have it?”

“Uh – yes, it's in my – ”

“Go get it! _Now!”_

Bruce got up and Clint pulled out his cell phone. Nine-one-one... He felt like it was ringing forever. He ran a hand over his face, crooked a finger and bit the knuckle, hard – and realized only too late that the bitter taste on his tongue was his neighbor's blood.

Grills was panting with quick, shallow breaths.

_“911, what is your emergency?”_

By the time Clint gave his name and address and described the situation, Bruce was back with Hill's pager. As soon as the operator told Clint help was on the way, he pressed the phone to his chest and breathed, “Turn it on.”

He was suspended, so his pager wouldn't receive any _Assemble_ calls; but Hill's pager, with any luck, might still be connected. And indeed, as soon as it blinked to life, it started buzzing in Bruce's hands.

“ _Assemble,”_ the scientist read. “ _Code Red.”_

He glanced up. He was worried, but very calm, and it helped Clint, helped him soothe his own panic if only for a second.

“Clint, what's going on?” Bruce asked.

“You were right, we did miss something,” Clint panted. “And whatever we missed is happening _now._ And I'm the one who knows the most about it so they shot Grills, but they didn't kill him, or else I would've come after them. They shot him to – to immobilize me.”

“Clint, that – that makes no sense. They would've shot _you.”_

Bruce's hands trembled, once.

“They would've killed you.”

Clint suddenly remembered the sound of broken glass he'd heard. The scientist had gone out to buy lab equipment, hadn't he? But then he'd heard the shot, and the scream, and let it all fall down to shatter on the floor.

“It's you,” Clint breathed.

Bruce looked more puzzled than ever. “What?”

“It's because of you!” Clint exclaimed, realization dawning. “You saved my ass in that alleyway, and the Hulk saved my ass _again_ in the sewers, and Masque's men were here both times, so they thought if they hurt me – _you_ would come for them!”

Grills groaned and shuddered violently. “Hawkguy – ”

“Hey,” Clint said, forgetting instantly about everything else. “Hey, buddy. It's gonna be fine.”

“Why're you still _here,”_ his neighbor muttered.

Clint blinked. “What?”

Grills took a deeper breath and let out, “You say it's a trap so why're you still here?”

“Why – I can't just _leave_ you, you goddamn – ”

 _“Dummy,”_ Grills yelled hoarsely. “You're a hero! So go _be a fuckin' hero!”_

Clint gaped for a second, then, stupidly, looked up at Bruce.

_Always needed someone to steer the car, Barton..._

“He's right,” Bruce said. “There's nothing else we can do for him anyway.”

“I don't even know what we're up against! I don't even have a goddamn plan!”

“Do you have any arrows?”

Clint's face crunched in what must be a really stupid expression. “I _– what –_ of course I have arrows. If there's one thing I do have – ”

“That's all we need.” Bruce said, getting up, “Come on.”

 

*

 

“Kate,” Clint mumbled in his phone as they hurtled down the stairs. “Kate, pick up, pickup pickup pickup – ”

He stopped on his landing but Bruce kept going down to go knock on Aimee's door, because they needed _someone_ to take care of Grills and why was it always someone else who had to deal with Clint Barton's problems, how come he even had any friends –

“ _Clint?”_

“Kate! I need you to come here ASAP, I think the building's under attack and I can't stay and you're the only one I can trust to protect it.”

He banged his door open, grabbed his jacket, his quiver, his bow –

_“What? Who's attacking? What do you mean, 'you can't stay'?_

He turned back, still clutching his phone with bloodied fingers. “Well, apparently – ” he panted, slamming the door shut behind him, “I've gotta save the world.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Can't wait to hear your thoughts on this one :D
> 
> Spoilers for Hawkeye #9 in the comments.


	17. Hero

 

 

 

 

 

Clint's hands were slippery with Grills' blood, and he only realized too late that he was wiping them on his jeans as Bruce and him hurtled down the stairs together. The scientist had slung a heavy backpack on his shoulder, and was checking Hill's pager with a frown.

They burst out in the freezing air, snow crunching under their feet. “Location?” Clint panted.

“I'm not sure,” Bruce said. “It's moving. They're around – Bushwick now. Do you have a car?”

“Yeah, but it's gonna take us forever to – ”

Clint cut himself off when he remembered he was suspended – which meant no Quinjets and no help. A car was all they had. Well, that, or the subway.

“Can you deal with your antidote in a _car?”_

Bruce shrugged, as if to say he'd dealt in much worse places.

“Okay,” Clint panted. “Okay. Come on.”

“So you _do_ have a car?” Bruce called as they ran down the street. “How come you never use it?”

Clint brushed the snow off the windshield of his beloved 1970 Dodge Challenger. For all her beauty, she was like Donald Duck's 313 in the Scrooge comics – Clint had lost count of many times he'd had to repair her almost entirely. The very day he'd bought her had ended up in a car chase. The day he'd gone out of town with Grills had ended up with them in a goddamn _hurricane._ And now, he was racing to a supernatural battlefield with the Hulk in tow and deadly chemicals on the back seat.

Like this could end well.

“Oh, wow,” Bruce mumbled when they opened the doors and sat on the vintage, luxurious leather-clad seats. “Okay, I get it.”

The engine roared to life and the car left in a screeching of tires – Clint hadn't watched where he was going and he had to put on the brakes to avoid a screaming ambulance. Looking in the mirror, he breathed out with relief when he realized it must be coming for Grills.

“He's impressive,” Bruce said. “Your neighbor. Gil?”

“Yeah,” Clint admitted breathlessly. “Yeah, he's pretty cool.”

The scientist was rummaging in his backpack.

“Can you seriously do that in a car?” Clint asked.

“You don't even know _what_ I'm doing.”

“Yeah, but – ”

Then Clint remembered he still wasn't in a SHIELD vehicle and jammed on the brakes to stop at a red light. The seatbelts took their toll and Bruce let out a strangled sound.

“ _Jesus!”_ he choked. “No wonder you don't drive often.”

“Hey, I'm great at cars,” Clint protested. “And boats. And planes. Anything you can drive, really. Just got a lot on my mind right now.”

“Yeah, well, don't make me Hulk out before we get there.”

“Aw, you'll handle it,” Clint said, and stepped on the gas when the light turned green.

Bruce huffed through his nose, then dove into his bag again. When Clint glanced his way, he saw he'd gotten out two hermetically sealed vials which looked like they just contained water. Or vodka. The labels were obviously handmade.

“What the fuck _are_ those,” Clint asked.

The doctor didn't answer. Clint went even faster to catch the next traffic light. “So now what? You just mix'em up?”

“Uh, no,” Bruce said, like it was obvious. “I can't do that in a _car.”_

Clint rolled his eyes.

“Look,” the scientist said. “Masque was taking over _the entire neighborhood._ She was making something really _big_ – something she had to field-test on ants before. A living weapon she developed in different parts of New York, like a puzzle.”

“The code,” Clint said.

Bruce glanced at him. “What?”

“Something I'd noticed – y'know, tags on the walls? Circles with two arrows through it? That's vagabond code for _fuck off before the storm.”_

Clint took a brutal turn to the right and hit the gas pedal.“They call themselves the Family,” he said. “They warned the _Family members_ that shit was about to go down.”

It was snowing again, and snowflakes were twirling before the car without ever touching it, like curtains of white velvet opening up as they drove forward. _And now, for my next act..._

“We freaked them out,” Bruce murmured. “We almost got them last time, so they're doing it now. Double or nothing. Now they're coming at all of them. All the superheroes in New York.”

“But how do we _know_ that?”

“We don't,” Bruce admitted. “Maybe we're just running towards more ants. But what's the point?The gamma ants were good enough; why not do the whole nest and set them loose?”

Clint glanced at the clear liquid.

“Bruce, what are those vials?” he asked again.

“Nothing deadly.” Bruce shrugged. “Or – as deadly as water can be to a flame. Except I don't know _which_ flame they used and – ”

“Bruce,” Clint said more quietly. “What _are_ those vials.”

The engine was probably roaring, but he couldn't hear it. There was only the twirling snow, for quite some time.

“Cure attempts,” Bruce murmured eventually.

He ran a hand through his hair, half-frozen locks dripping between his fingers. “Those are the most recent I've made.”

“But they're – ”

“Failures,” Bruce said with a bitter smile. “I waited to get rid of them safely because they involve Tesseract elements. It means they might be of use now – like a super dampener – but I don't know _which one_ will work. I'm not even sure any of them will.” He licked his lips. “But now there's no time left for tests.”

Clint stared at him. _Cure attempts._ Even now, even after Manhattan. He wished he could have seen Bruce's eyes right now, but the doctor was staring right through the windshield without –

“Clint, watch the _road!”_

He climbed on the sidewalk to avoid a chunk of concrete and winced for his shock absorbers when the car brutally went back down on the asphalt.

“For _fuck's_ sake!” Bruce exclaimed. “I _told_ you I don't – why are you laughing?”

“I think it's the first time I ever heard you swear,” Clint grinned.

He picked up speed again. Bruce stared at him with his mouth open for a second, then gathered himself together. Only then did Clint register what he'd just dodged – a chunk of concrete in the middle of the _road?_

And where was everyone? The streets were empty. Snow kept falling quietly, whirling with gushes of wind now and then, and there was not a single car and not a single soul in sight.

On the ground, anyway. In the white sky ahead, though –

“What the hell is _that?”_ Clint squinted.

It was gray; it was square; it was massive. Clint's eyes widened and he turned left so abruptly he smashed into a trash can – which was probably preferable to getting crushed by the _flying car_ someone had apparently just thrown in their general direction.

It crashed mere yards from them and painted a long trail of black oil on the white snow. Bruce looked shaken up but this time, he didn't complain.

“We're getting close,” Clint panted. “And you must be right. I don't think ants can throw cars.”

He was reversing when something exploded behind a row of buildings.

“Bruce – grab my quiver. You want me to shoot these vials at whatever's out there, right?”

“I – ”

Something yellow hurtled past them like a shooting star and crashed on the asphalt with a horrible crunch of broken bones, splattering the dirty snow with dark blood.

 _“Wolverine,”_ Clint panted. “Bruce – my quiver!”

The scientist snapped out of his horrified fascination and nodded; he took his glasses off and put them in the glove compartment. Clint would have found this detail oddly touching if he hadn't been busy _avoiding the cars_ which were now falling regularly around them. On the other side of the street, Logan was arching in the snow as his shattered body knitted itself back. Healing factors were pretty fucking useful.

“There,” the scientist said, plopping back in his seat with the quiver in his hands. “What do I do now?”

“Grab an acid arrow,” Clint said. “They're labeled now, so it should be – ”

Iron Man fell from the sky like a meteor with his armor torn and dented. Clint slammed on the brakes so he wouldn't hit him; he came to a screeching halt just as Stark blasted himself up mere yards from the ground. The armor wavered in the air for a second, then dashed away. Bruce had only glanced up then focused back on the quiver; he unscrewed the head of the arrow, took out the small vial of acid and put the colorless antidote in its place. His vial was a bit bigger but hey, adaptable arrowheads. Was Clint a professional or what?

“Okay,” Clint said, breathless. “Now the second – _shit!”_

This time, he could not avoid the blocks of concrete raining down from the sky; they were glowing like embers and smashed down on everything in a mile radius, including the front of Clint's beautiful car, breaking the windshield and hopelessly killing the engine. Clint covered his head and gritted his teeth when shards of glass stuck themselves in the back of his hands.

When he looked up, he was almost certain the Hulk would be sitting in the passenger seat; but not only had Bruce stayed himself, he'd managed to swap the second vial and stuff the arrows back in Clint's quiver.

Clint noticed the smashed-in hood was beginning to smoke.

_Aw, car._

“We've gotta get out,” he began – and then the hood burst in flames.

They both ran out of the car, but Bruce seemed to have trouble breathing; and when Clint grabbed his arm to help him run, he noticed that for all his control, the scientist was definitely starting to look a bit green around the edges. Clint dragged him to a safe distance and stopped, letting go of him. Bruce doubled over and took a shaky, shallow breath.

“Hey, you alr – ”

“The hell are you _doing_ here?” someone shouted across the street.

Clint glanced up – and screwed his eyes shut when the engine exploded behind him. When he turned round, his car was now just letting out sad puffs of smoke, like a chain smoker who'd promised to stop the day before. He turned back and realized Logan had recovered enough to yell at them.

“What's going on over there?” he yelled back.

“Freak of the week's beefier than usual,” Logan growled. “Got no radio in your damn car? Half our forces are down and civilians are being evacuated.”

He popped his left shoulder back into place and strode past them. “Better get lost, vanilla.”

“We're here to help,” Clint said, but he wasn't even in battle gear, he had a stick and string in his hand, and Bruce was still his very scrawny self and currently busy taking deep, regular breaths. No wonder Logan sneered at them like he did.

“I already died five times today, bub. Your call. But _you – ”_ he pointed at the scientist, “you can be of use.”

“No,” Bruce panted, waving a hand. “There's enough chaos as it is.”

Clint looked around. He had been so focused on not getting his car flattened under a rock that he hadn't noticed how terribly wrecked his surroundings were. There was not a single intact window around; most of the buildings were either burst open or literally _cut in half._ The asphalt was peeling away like old wallpaper, and heavy black clouds were weighing over them, blanching with sporadic pangs of lightning. The action, whatever it _was_ exactly, seemed to be located behind a building tall enough to hide it despite –

“Wasn't a question,” Wolverine growled.

_Snikt._

Clint spun round just in time to see the adamantium claws push into Bruce's stomach and rip three holes through the back of his shirt.

The scientist opened wide eyes and an even wider mouth – and stayed like this, mute with shock; Logan retracted his claws and Bruce fell to his knees, choking, astonishment and agony wiping out every other emotion off his face. His shirt started soaking up red blood which looked almost black against the purple cloth.

“That'll do the trick,” Logan said in his sandpaper voice, before sniffing at Clint. “Might wanna step ba – ”

The end of his sentence got lost in a yowl of pain when a long arrow embedded itself in his left eye. Clint had snapped open his bow without even realizing it. Bruce was still on his knees, choking on his own blood.

“ _You – fucking – asshole!”_ Logan hollered as he pulled the arrow out, big red tears rolling down his cheek.

Clint didn't give one inch of ground and drew again to aim at his other eye. He felt himself shivering with wrath.

“No means no,” he said coldly. _“'Bub'.”_

An animal growl bubbled in Logan's throat. “Gonna rip you _apart,_ you little – ”

“YOU _FIRST,”_ Bruce roared – and he _exploded_ in the snow.

There was no fight – he just flattened Logan under a fist the size of Clint's late 70's Dodge engine. Clint winced a little at the renewed sound of broken bones, but Logan frankly had it coming. All Clint could really think about anyway was, _shit – Bruce really liked this shirt._

And then the Hulk turned towards him and cars and clothes were suddenly the least of Clint's concern. He lowered his bow, and was very surprised to realize he wasn't afraid. Not really.

“Hey, big guy,” he said.

The Hulk howled in his face; Clint took a step back, but then just nodded. “Yeah. I'd be angry too.”

He realized he _was_ angry, so angry that he'd just shot a teammate in the eye without batting an eyelid. Logan, no less. Which was kinda good, because at least _he_ would recover from it, but also really bad because, well, you don't shoot _Wolverine_ in the eye.

Then again, you don't fucking stab Banner in the stomach either.

Hulk only snorted; there was another explosion in the distance, more powerful than the others. The green giant straightened up and smelled the wind like a hound. He scowled even more and growled, low in his throat.

“Hulk,” Clint said, throat dry. “I could really use a ride.”

The titan's head snapped round at him and Clint could literally _hear_ his teeth grind together in his mouth.

“Hulk no _ride.”_

“I know – I know that,” Clint said. “But without you, I'm stuck here. Give me a hand? I'll return the favor.”

Hulk snorted at him, this time with a distinct mocking undertone.

“No, I mean it, man. You know that Banner – ”

 _“Banner,”_ Hulk spat. “Banner no _help!_ Banner hates Hulk!”

He slammed a fist on the ground; and behind the destroyed buildings, the awful ruckus calmed down for a second before starting again.

“Yeah, I guess he does.” Clint scratched the back of his head. “I'll talk to him about that.”

Something flickered in the green eyes.

“I promise,” Clint said. “I do. But I can't help you if I'm dead, y'know?”

He pulled out the antidote arrow. “C'mon, we can try. You, and me, and – ” he waved the arrow “ – Bruce, too. All together for once.”

Hulk huffed, but he seemed hesitant. Clint hoped his own uncertainty didn't show – Bruce himself hadn't sounded really sure his half-assed weapon would work. Yet another explosion shook the ground, followed with the sound of collapsing buildings; and the titan suddenly reached out.

“Whoa!” Clint squeaked when the giant hand picked him up. “O – kay, okay, alright –” he stammered as the Hulk lifted him and let him climb on his shoulder. “Yeah, like that... – okay...”

Clint undid the strap of his quiver and wrapped it around Hulk's neck before clipping it again and bracing his arm around it. “Hey, you're getting better at this,” he said. “Last time, you'd knocked me out, rememb –”

His words were shoved back down in his throat when Hulk just – _leaped._

Clint was so shocked he didn't even throw up or anything. Good for him, because what with the freezing wind piercing through his jeans and making his long coat flap behind him, getting his clothes wet would have been _really_ uncomfortable. He saw a rooftop come at them and braced himself for the crash; but Hulk landed on legs like adamantium coiled springs, and Clint barely felt anything.

He was still a bit shaken as he pulled on his quiver to climb on Hulk's shoulder and look around.

 

_This looks..._

 

This place probably used to be a public school.

But the big, square edifices were burst out like rotten eggs and broken down in chunks scattered all over the place. The ring of higher buildings around the block – Hulk having landed on one of them – made the whole place look like some fucked-up arena. Deep craters had been dug into the asphalt; everything flammable was on fire, and the concrete walls themselves looked scorched, painted with ash and soot. But the worst of all was the even bigger crater in the middle of it all; something impossibly _huge,_ nearly two hundred feet in diameter with its inner walls strangely glazed over – because, Clint understood with a chill, of the sheer _heat_ the man inside radiated, like a nuclear bomb.

A living weapon. Tesseract-powered gamma rays.

Fuck, Bruce had been right, had been right all along, and this didn't look just bad – this looked _disastrous._ And it wasn't just the school – everything north of Bushwick was destroyed as far as he could see.

The enemy himself was strangely beautiful, though.

After the nightmarish, crab-like ants, to see this glowing white silhouette was deceptively soothing. He had long, fair hair, and a stance like he was simply meditating on the meaning of life.

Then someone – _Jessica_ – moved on a wall; a quick flash of color against the concrete. The man's eyes opened, sought her – and he shot a pang of white light at her which quartered her in mid-air and smacked her against the wall. Clint heard her bones crack and it was _nothing_ like watching Logan get his ass handed to him. She fell down without a sound and didn't move.

“Jess!” he breathed, then startled when Hulk moved – he'd forgotten for a second that he was riding a green rage monster. “Whoa – _wait!”_

“Hulk smash!” Hulk roared.

“Just a second, I can't – who _is_ that guy?”

He squinted and hell yeah, he had a good sight, because in spite of the distance he managed to read something printed in large black letters on the enemy's left side. Something like _Project Santa._ Or maybe _Project Sentry._ Nothing really useful, because at that point, he'd kind of figured out the Tracksuits & Co were a little – _a lot_ – more organized than he'd once thought. _Like a piece puzzled together in the core of New York. A living weapon against Manhattan's heroes, to take them all down._

What _was_ the headcount?

Clint looked around; for a dreadful, breathless second, he thought Jessica had been the last one standing. But then Hulk huffed and growled as something colorful dashed from behind a boulder of concrete. Clint couldn't hold back a slightly hysterical laugh – of _course_ Steve Rogers was still on his feet. As the clouds parted for a second, he saw Tony Stark circling the giant crater, too, careful not to get too close. Then Clint caught sight of some dude in a yellow suit like Logan's – was that Cyclops? – and then another and another. Just like Spiderman, the X-Men had no official existence. For them to team up with the Avengers meant the situation was more than desperate.

Clint couldn't believe it. The fight had started roughly half an hour ago; and already, it looked like they were on the verge of the Apocalypse.

_Not so fast, evil dude. I've got a bow and arrow._

He swallowed painfully and slid a bit down the Hulk's back, who rolled his shoulder as if to bring him back up. Clint chuckled wanly at that and grabbed the thick black hair to hoist himself up.

“Okay,” he mumbled under his breath. “Fuck. Okay.”

“Now?” Hulk growled and holy shit, he was actually awaiting orders?

“No – not yet,” Clint said. “Look – seems like they're planning some kind of massive attack...”

He feared he would provoke even more of a disaster if they just jumped in. It was infuriating not to know. How he _wished_ he had a com piece in his ear.

And how he wished Jessica would get up.

But she wasn't moving, a heap of red and gold against the dull concrete, and then he realized that she could die – that for all their powers, they all could just stop existing. Just like everyone else.

Then Steve bolted forward and – repulsor beams, lightning bolts, telekinetic rays, you name it – all hell broke loose on the Sentry guy.

Who didn't bat an eyelid.

He did better than that – he didn't move, didn't even look up, but a dazzling explosion of light _burst_ out of him and blasted everyone back with unprecedented violence.

Clint had to shield his eyes not to be blinded; the explosion pierced through his ears like a a howling demon let loose, and smacked him in the face with radiating heat. When he looked up, nothing was moving, save for the heavy puffs of dust and smoke all over the zone. Leftover energy curled above the concrete, then was sucked high up in the clouds, lighting them with more pangs of lightning.

The battlefield was littered with bright-colored bodies.

 

Clint notched his first antidote arrow and drew. Drew. Drew until he felt like the string was about to snap and take out his eye.

His hands were trembling.

He lowered his bow.

 

“We're too far,” he said.

 

It was true. Stark had been working on a new compound bow, but now Stark was down like everyone else. And Clint's current bow certainly couldn't cover the distance.

“Now,” Hulk growled decidedly.

Clint swallowed.“Yeah.”

He would have liked to say goodbye. To leave a note, maybe. To Kate or Nat. Or even Jess. But mostly, he would have liked to talk to Bruce. Just _talk_ to him. He realized it as Hulk leaped forward again, as the wind whistled by his ears and his stomach heaved with the fall, but it was far too late then.

 

Then Hulk landed hard in the concrete and started running towards the crater, and it was as though Loki had touched Clint with his staff again. There was nothing in his head, no fear, no doubts, no regrets, no sadness, nothing but _his next target._

The Sentry's left eye. _It's easy. Fuck, you just did Wolverine. It's easy._

Hulk was pushing chunks of concrete and wrecked cars out the way as he ran, and his howl shook the collapsed buildings and rattled through Clint's bones and filled him with fire; and he stood up on the muscular shoulders, slipping his foot under the strap of his quiver to keep himself steady, and notched again and drew and this time, his hands weren't shaking. His heart was pounding in his chest to the beat of the Hulk's pounding steps. Which slowed down. Slowed down.

Back muscles tighten and lock.

 _“Jess,”_ he hissed between his teeth – and released the arrow.

It dashed through the air like it had a mind of its own – and got _vaporized_ with the next blast of pure light.

The wave hurled itself at Clint like his glowing white death; he curled up on himself to protect his head, but then Hulk cupped his hands above him and the shockwave washed over them both. The titan actually took a step back; Clint felt a mad heat seep from between the giant fingers, and blisters bubbled on his skin.

He took out the second arrow and stood on the Hulk's shoulders again when the big guy lowered his hands.

“Go,” he shouted. “Don't worry about me, just – ”

Hulk jumped in the crater and let himself slide down the glazed slope, roaring like Clint had never heard him roar before – and Clint howled with him, like the idiot he was, and he _drew_ and _aimed_ and the Sentry had to choose between two targets, and of _course_ he picked Hulk over the dude with a bow.

He blasted the titan with a dazzling rod of light which hit him _right_ under the heart – and Hulk cried out. He didn't snarl; he cried out, choked on it, like a man in pain; like _Bruce._

And he collapsed with a terrible _thud_ which shook the whole ruins.

Clint's foot was still strapped to Hulk's neck; the shock of the fall propelled him forward, and he felt his ankle twist as he was slammed against the concrete – but he just shook free and landed with a roll before getting up on one knee, he was still holding his bow – and he just skipped the aiming part and _shot._

The glowing god turned towards him with white-hot eyes.

 

White-hot _eye._

 

The other one had a shaft sticking out of it; and a single tear of blood rolled down the perfect cheek to dangle on the razor-sharp edge of his jaw.

Clint froze, panting. Around him, everything had turned absolutely still. He remembered only one out of two arrows worked. _If_ they worked at all. Who knew what else might have been pumped in this guy. Who knew if he wasn't about to wipe Clint out of existence.

The Sentry raised a slender hand and pulled out the arrow, like Wolverine had. Clint's insides turned to molten lead.

But instead of glowering at him, the Sentry just peered down at the broken shaft curiously, like he had no idea what it was. The arrowhead was still stuck in his eye and half-piercing through the back of his head. The vial had exploded inside his brain, and Bruce's antidote was now thinning down the blood trickling down his cheek. The first drop, the dark red one, dangled on his jaw for another second – then fell.

The Sentry's white glow faltered and died out, like someone was dimming the lights inside him. His immaculate hair was now a simple, dull blond, his white-hot eye a vague blue, his unsullied skin a light tan. He swayed on his feet for a terrible moment, then fell on his knees; then back against the glazed wall. He still looked more astonished than anything. The slick surface caused him to slowly slide down until he was curled up at the very bottom of the crater; and he curled up some more, brought up his knees against his chest, and let out a small sigh before closing his eyes.

It was the most peaceful way Clint had ever seen anyone die.

 

And then, he found himself alone. For the first time in his life, he was the last man standing.

It didn't feel nearly as good as he thought it would.

 

 

 

 

 


	18. Last man standing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my beta laurie_ky for her awesome work. Not saying this nearly as often as I should. ^^

 

 

 

 

 

Clint's ankle hurt so bad he couldn't keep from crying out every time his foot brushed the ground, so he half-limped, half-hopped towards Hulk, leaning against his bow for leverage. The giant body was motionless. There was no obvious wound, but Clint had no idea if that was a good sign or not.

He glanced up, squinting at the white clouds over them. They were pretty far deep in the giant crater. It wasn't perfectly conical, and thanks to the ledge they had landed on, they weren't likely to fall all the way down to the corpse curled up at the very bottom. But larges patches of it were still perfectly glassy. There was no way Clint was getting out with his bad ankle – not to mention Hulk's body in tow.

At least, the giant was still breathing. Clint was starting to break out in a cold sweat with pain, so he sat down and leaned again the massive arm with a sigh.

“Hey, big guy,” he said in a weary voice, lightly punching him. “See? We fuckin' got him.”

The Hulk hummed, a deep rumble which shook Clint to the bones.

“Hurts,” he mumbled.

He put a hand to his massive chest, where the lightning bolt had hit him.

“Yeah – guess it does,” Clint murmured. “But it's okay now. You're gonna be okay.”

Or so he hoped. Hulk let his head fall back.

 _“You..._ okay?” he asked with an effort.

Clint stayed speechless for a second. Then he huffed a wet laugh, patting the giant arm again. “I'm fine, big guy. Don't worry.”

He scooted closer until he was snug in the crook of Hulk's elbow. Sure, the titan could have crushed him in the blink of an eye, but on the other hand, Clint had never felt safer in his life. Nothing could harm him in _here –_ not to mention it was actually pretty comfortable.

Clint tightened his jacket around himself. His eyes swept over the Sentry's corpse again, and he quickly closed them with a wince. He felt like he was filled with a thick gray mud, and he knew that for all his mad power, the softly surprised eyes of the Sentry would haunt him for weeks. And that was only _one_ kill, one willing kill. Clint couldn't fathom how Bruce felt every day.

He exhaled, then reopened his eyes and looked up at the white clouds scattering above. It had stopped snowing at some point, and it was now a beautiful winter day. Everything was so strange and peaceful.

Maybe it was only them now. Maybe everyone else was dead.

He blinked, but no matter how shocked, how in pain, how tired he was, he wouldn't cry. He had never cried since his circus days.

Clint's phone suddenly started to buzz in his pocket, and he startled violently. He had completely forgotten phones existed, let alone could still work even after a micro-apocalypse. He got it out with stiff, clumsy fingers and read _Incoming call – Hawkeye_ on the screen before he brought it up to his ear.

“Hey.”

The Hulk moved minutely behind him. Clint patted his arm once or twice, then let his head fall back against the green skin to gaze at the sky again. “Yeah,” he answered to Katie. “No, it's fine now. What about you? Any trouble?”

It was all so quiet.

“Good, that's a relief. Thanks.” Katie started talking endlessly and he only nodded, although she couldn't see him. “Yeah, I know. I know. I'm sorry.” His phone sizzled with her tinny voice for a bit longer. “Hey,” he interrupted softly. “What about Gil?”

A pause.

 _“Grills,_ Katie. Is he okay?”

He sighed a bit more of his tension out. “Okay. Okay. Thanks.”

He sniffed and scratched his nose; Kate repeated a question he hadn't answered to. “What? No. Just a sprained ankle.”

She broke into another long tirade which he let flow over him, still nodding automatically as though she'd been there, and when she was done, he repeated, “I'm sorry.”

And then he smiled, a bit wanly. “Me too. Yeah. Thanks, Kate.”

Just as he hung up, a blur of yellow made him look up.

Oh – so, Wolverine had apparently come back from his sixth death. He stuck his claws into the glass at the edge of the crater and skidded down in an awful screech which echoed endlessly under the clear skies. He landed on Clint's platform and got up; without a word, he fixed his eyes on the Sentry's body and on the arrow sticking out of his eye. His blood had kept filling the cone of glass he was curled up in; he looked like a jewel on red velvet.

Clint looked away again.

“Logan,” he said wearily. “Came to poke my eye out?”

The mutant snorted at him, but drew in his claws. Clint guessed he should count himself lucky.

“Anyone die?” he asked, because he would have to ask at some point, and for some twisted reason, he'd rather hear this from Logan's mouth.

But the mutant shook his head as he pulled out an improbable cigar and lit it up. “Don't know. It's still chaos up there.”

He exhaled a puff of smoke, then shut his lighter with a _clink._ “Alright, let's get out of this shithole.”

“Sprained ankle,” Clint told him.

“Carried heavier.”

“But Hulk is...”

The giant hadn't reacted at all to Logan's arrival. This time, he had really passed out.

“Medical will take care of it,” Logan said. “They have to wait till Banner's back anyway. Get up.”

“No, I'll wait with him.”

Logan's eyes narrowed. “Look, princess, I haven't exactly got time for your tantrums. There's a lot of cleaning up to be done up there.”

“I'll wait with him,” Clint repeated.

The mutant stared at him and for a second, Clint thought he was going to knock him unconscious and carry him out. But he just snorted and said, “What the _hell_ is going on with you two?”

Clint just shrugged and leaned back against Hulk. Logan scoffed and Clint expected him to climb out of the crater, but he just took a few steps and leaned against the glass, biting down on his cigar before crossing his arms with a pointed look. He'd wait.

Clint didn't try to understand, and just closed his eyes.

 

After a timeless pause, Logan's raspy voice rose again.

“Time's up.”

Clint slid backwards and realized the green mass he'd leaned against was gone. Straightening up and shaking his fatigue off, he saw that Bruce was curling up on the dusty concrete, unconsciously protecting his head with his arms. There was an enormous, black-and-purple bruise over his heart. Hulk had survived the inhuman blow, but he hadn't managed to heal it entirely. The scientist's features were contorted with pain.

“Hey,” Clint murmured. “Bruce?”

“And here's the cavalry,” Logan said, sneering at the sky.

Clint took off his purple long coat and covered Bruce's naked body, before crouching down to wrap his arms around him and help him sit up. Bruce was mostly awake, but his head lolled down as soon as he knelt up. His fingers tightened weakly around Clint's shirt as he tried to breathe deeper; Clint rubbed his back with steady strokes, murmuring nonsense under his breath.

He'd expected Logan to make some sort of comment, but the mutant only looked away with strange consideration. When the Quinjet arrived, he shoved Clint out of the way and lifted Banner in his own arms so Clint could limp towards the aircraft, leaving the unmoving corpse of the Sentry behind.

Clint was pretty sure another team was on their way to take care of  _that_ body. _  
_

He thought he would be brought to Fury or Hill, but the surface was such a mess, with so many people injured, so many casualties, and so many explanations to give, that everyone kinda forgot about him. Clint was alright with that – relieved, even. The Quinjet just dropped Logan on the ground, then the medic at the back put a Kevlar splint on Clint's sprained ankle and told him that it would heal in two weeks or so and that he'd gotten really lucky. Clint politely listened, obligingly nodded, but refused the painkillers and never took his eyes off Banner. The scientist was deeply asleep on a stretcher, still wrapped in Clint's coat.

Clint asked the pilot to drop them in Bedford-Stuyvesant.

“Aren't you supposed to do some kind of debrief?”

“I'm not an Avenger,” Clint told him. “I just want to go home.”

 

*

 

It took them minutes to reach his old building. The grill was still there as well as the large bloodstain, now dried and frozen. The pilot helped Clint carry Banner one floor down; Clint realized that he had no idea where Banner's keys could be, that he was a terrible landlord for not having a spare, and that he would rather not let the scientist stay alone anyway – not in such a state. It wasn't weird to let him sleep on his couch, right? Even if he was naked and all.

When the pilot left, though, Banner was in Clint's bed, because Clint wasn't enough of an asshole to let an injured, shocked, vulnerable man take the couch, like some sort of unwanted guest. He cast a worried look over the black bruise over the center of Banner's chest. Perhaps he should have let medical have a look at him after all? It looked fainter, but still...

He shook his head and drew the covers over Banner's shivering body, then added another one because he looked really _cold._ Well – that shouldn't come out as a surprise with how thin he was. Clint was about to limp back into the living room to collapse on his couch; but on second thought, he dragged himself with gritted teeth to the closet and dug out a few clothes for Bruce. He dropped them on a chair, then – still leaning on his bow – finally left the room and drew the door behind him, leaving it slightly ajar.

When he looked up, he realized he must have done the same with the front door since Kate was standing in the middle of the room.

She was staring at him with wide dark eyes in a very pale face. Clint opened his mouth with no idea what he could say; but then she crossed the room in three strides and hugged him.

Kate's hugs were rare and always short-lived. When she let go, she was smiling in spite of her too shiny eyes, and she punched him in the shoulder a bit too roughly.

“You rode the Hulk into battle, boss.”

Clint opened his mouth, paused, then said, “Well, it's more like – ”

“You took down the most powerful being of the century. With a freaking arrow.”

“I didn't really – how do you _know_ all that?”

“SHIELD, dummy. Haven't you got a pager? Turns out the Sentry Project was actually stolen from _their_ labs or something. That's how they knew at once they had to evacuate everyone.”

Clint plopped himself down on the couch. “Yeah, well, believe it or not, it was dumb luck. I just... Seriously – _stolen?_ Those guys are really – ”

He heard a clicking of paws and smiled at his dog gingerly coming out of the other room now that the scary pilot in black clothes was gone. “Hey, Lucky. C'mere. There's a good boy.”

Kate sat on the carpet to pet him. She let a few seconds go by, and Clint was grateful for it.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Clint nodded, shook his head, closed his eyes. “I'm always okay.”

“Is _he_ okay?”

Clint looked at her and she met his eyes in earnest. None of them said Banner's name, but it was burning their lips like a dying ember.

“Look, Katie,” Clint begun. “We're... I'm trying to make it work. So – please – don't go talking with him behind my back again.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What the hell are _you_ talking about?”

“He told me you came to see him – that you were... _worried_ about me?”

“News flash,” she snorted. “Thank God you've got him as a nanny now.”

Clint gaped at her. “...What?”

“I _was_ worried about you,” she said. “So I asked him to be careful around you. Like, don't let any sharp objects within reach, that kind of thing.”

He blinked at her for a few seconds of complete dumbness then started laughing softly. “God, Katie. I thought – fuck, you know what, never mind.”

He rubbed his face with both hands. He should really stop assuming things altogether – but it was so easy to envision the worst whenever it came to Banner. Lucky whined a little and Clint started petting him again.

“Steve Rogers called me yesterday,” Katie went on casually. “Asked me if I ever killed anyone.”

Clint stilled and looked at her.

“You – ”

She smiled and said, “We're in.”

“...Seriously?” he said, breathless. “The Young Avengers? But... it's not your fight.”

“We're all going to have to take sides eventually.”

He hadn't really seen it like that until now, but of course, she was right. She glanced at the door of Clint's bedroom again.

“But you're not doing this just because it's right,” she said softly. “You're doing it for _him.”_

It wasn't a question, but Clint still nodded haphazardly in answer. “Yeah. I think I am.”

He knew he was.

“I think I got a little... _confused_ here, Katie.”

He wondered if that counted as coming out, and he wondered if she was keen enough to hear it. But she didn't say anything and he'd never been really good at guessing what was going on in her mind.

“What are you going to do, then?” she asked.

She could have implied anything by that and he took what seemed like the safest route. “Sleep on the couch, I guess.”

Kate raised an eyebrow. “What? You're kidding, right?”

“No, I – ”

“Boss, your bed's big enough for two. What's the matter?”

Clint took a sharp breath. This was ridiculous– of course he'd slept by a teammate's side before. Natasha – at least a hundred times. Steve Rogers, once. Agent Ward, Agent Carter, Agent Coulson, before the Avengers became a thing. Hell, they were almost piling up at night in his circus days. It didn't _mean_ anything.

But Bruce was... Well, first of all, he was naked. And second of all, Clint felt he'd invaded his personal bubble _way_ too much already. He couldn't possibly explain this to Katie, though; and as she started looking even more suspicious, he cleared his throat and quickly said, “Okay – okay. Please, help me up?”

She helped him limp across the room to the ajar door; but when she opened it, they stopped, freezing in the timeless reflex of people overhearing a sleeper's breathing.

Bruce was lying on his left side and curled up under the blankets, facing the door; his right hand was pressed against his chest, the dreadful bruise having almost disappeared, and his other hand was buried under the pillow. His breathing was heavy and slow, and he was slightly frowning in his sleep.

Clint glanced at Kate and saw something strange flicker through her eyes. It was almost as though she'd just noticed how _vulnerable_ Banner looked when he wasn't Hulk. Which was most of the time, really.

“Okay,” she said.

She shrugged off Clint's arm, but then something pushed against Clint's knee and he caught himself on Kate's shoulder. “Ow – _Lucky!”_ he whispered. “No – bad dog!”

Lucky just trotted past him and climbed on the bed to curl up at the end of the mattress. Bruce's brow furrowed just a bit when the mattress dipped, but he didn't move and kept breathing slowly, silently, as though he was trained to hide even in his sleep. Clint's shoulders sagged in relief. He limped around the bed to climb in as well, as slowly and cautiously as he could.

He was actually glad Lucky was here – it made it all more... well, innocuous. Like a chaperon. Just two guys and a dog catching up on sleep after a rough day. A _chaperon_ – God, he was on full runner's high. Archer's high. Whatever.

“Okay,” Kate murmured as he settled under the covers. “Now get some rest, Hawkeye. I'll see you soon.”

“Sound like my mom, Hawkeye,” Clint muttered before turning his face into the pillow.

She smirked at him and closed the door.

 

*

 

Clint stayed lying on his side in the darkness, staring at Bruce's back. He was exhausted, but his own heartbeat was keeping him awake.

He felt it throb under his skin. Bruce was just a heap of vaguely human-shaped covers in the dark.

But to feel him so close made Clint breathless. And he was indignant about it, because it wasn't like he was aroused or anything. There was nothing sexual in all this, he still wasn't gay and he still wasn't dreaming about ripping off the clothes Bruce didn't have – so how could this attraction be so _powerful –_ so, physical? He was lying here, mere inches from him, and he felt like he couldn't get enough air in his lungs as long as he wouldn't be breathing in Bruce's hair.

He closed his eyes. He'd better go back on the couch, or he'd never sleep.

But he was so anxious he might wake up Bruce that he just stayed there in an awkward in between, tense as a bowstring, breathing in and out in the dark. He tried to focus on Bruce's breath. It was too slow for him, but he forced himself to adapt. To slow down the expansion of his own ribs. Slow it all down. He visualized a target and drew an immaterial string. Drew, drew, drew, until the flights of the arrow brushed his chin. Breathe in. Breathe out. Back muscles tighten and lock. Then release it all, feel it dash away in a little blow of breath, like a feather-light kiss. Notch again. Draw. Pause. He could see the target in his head. He focused his entire soul on the bull's eye. Release. Hit. Again, focus, become a single point in space.

He'd done this a lot after Loki. It was helping a bit now, maybe more than it'd helped back then. Notch. Draw. Pause. Release. There was no bow and no target but he was hitting everything he was aiming at. Notch. Draw. Pause. Release. Breathe in.

Breathe out.

 

*

 

A muffled crash which he knew very well woke him up – his alarm clock falling off the nightstand. Even though he'd lived here for almost a year now, he still tripped over the damn thing once out of every five times.

“Bruce,” he slurred. “You're at my place. It's okay. I lost your keys.”

He didn't make much sense so it must still be the middle of the night. He heard the scientist go very still, then suck in a breath. “...Clint?”

“Yeah.”

“So...”

“We won,” Clint mumbled.

He buried his face in the pillow. “M'too tired for the whole story but we did it. There's uh, clothes for you on the chair.”

Bruce mumbled a hesitant, inaudible _thank you._ Clint heard bare feet padding on the floor, then felt the mattress dip when Lucky jumped off. It must be something like three in the morning and that dumb dog thought it was time for breakfast.

“Don't feed him,” Clint said, voice muffled by the pillow.

“Uh,” Bruce whispered, in that same spaced out voice. “...Okay.”

There was a rustling of clothes as he slipped them on; then he left the room and Clint relaxed all at once, exhaling a deep breath. He wondered if Banner had left to go sleep on the couch. The thought was depressing, but Clint couldn't really blame him.

A light turned on in the hallway; from what Clint was hearing, Bruce had walked into the bathroom to splash water on his face. The sloshing noises went on for a little while; then there was a second of unmoving silence.

Clint pictured him, standing in the harsh light and facing the mirror, looking into his own eyes.

Then the light turned off and there was the same soft padding as Bruce came back into the bedroom. He shut the door behind him.

Clint remembered his brother Barney leaving their room in the orphanage, to go pee or have a midnight smoke; Clint had to wait in the dark for him to come back, because he knew he would wake up again then, so there was no point in falling asleep as long as Barney was gone. He hadn't lost this habit of waiting while in the circus, or even after that while he still lived on the Helicarrier. Forcing his own body to tense, only to revel in renewed rest when whoever was missing finally came back.

When the bed dipped under Bruce's weight, though, he tensed again and forced himself to keep his eyes shut. Shut was good. Shut was safe.

But he felt Bruce's breath on his skin and understood that he was lying on his side again, but facing him this time. Bruce wasn't long to notice it as well – he promptly turned on his back. Clint pictured him again, stiff as a broom, staring at the ceiling. He felt Banner shift again and tug on the sheets as he turned on his stomach. Then on his side again. His movements were more and more jerky because he knew he was keeping Clint awake, but the thought only made him want to stir more – or was that a memory of Clint's, from the circus? He had to lie so still then, with everyone's half-synchronized breaths around him, like a silent orchestra. Eyes wide open in the night, moonlight shining through the taut canvas over his head.

Bruce almost turned again but stopped himself half-way. He was trying so hard not to make any noise. Not to disturb. He was so embarrassed and miserable. He gingerly, minutely shifted under the sheets, holding his breath.

“Fuck it – come here,” Clint muttered.

He dragged Bruce close and wrapped his arms around him.

Bruce's breath hitched against his collarbone; but then _– then,_ after a frozen second, he worked an arm under Clint's to pull their bodies closer.

Clint felt something in his chest twist and tear.

He crushed Bruce against him, held him so damn _tight,_ buried his face in his hair, and Bruce was squeezing back – they were hugging each other breathless, so much it was almost painful.

“God,” Clint let out in a ragged, desperate breath. “Feels so damn _good.”_

He inhaled deeply, as deeply as he could. The curly hair was soft against his face; it smelled of dust and tea. They were wrapped hard into each other's arms as though holding on for dear life, and Clint could feel cramps building in all his muscles, but he just held even tighter. It was too much and it wasn't enough. He was shaking. Or maybe it was Bruce. Probably them both. He could hear everything from him in the dark, his breath loud as though he was breathing over a mike, his heart thumping against his, and Clint had been _dying_ to do this, to hold him, for who knew how long.

“I don't know what to do,” he said, hiding his face into Bruce's hair. “I don't know what to _do.”_ He huffed in frustration. “Don't want to – to scare you off.”

“You're not – you won't,” Bruce mumbled. “I just...”

He swallowed thickly. “I don't know what you want from me.”

Clint huffed a wet laugh. “I have no fucking idea what I want from you, Bruce. Right now, this is good.”

He finally relaxed his muscles, sinking even further into Bruce's arms with a deep breath out as the scientist did the same. “This is good,” he repeated under his breath.

“Yeah,” Bruce murmured. He shuddered, once, then said in a hoarse sigh, “Really is.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Champagne or what?


	19. Before Christmas

 

 

 

 

 

Someone was tinkering with glasses and pots in the living room.

Clint sniffed, then rolled on his side and sat up. The mattress shifted under another weight than his, and when he turned, Bruce was gingerly sitting up, hair a complete mess, eyes wary and uncertain.

“Hey,” Clint slurred, still completely out of it. “Uh – I think there's someone out there.”

He yawned, then got up – and winced as he caught himself against the wall; he'd forgotten his bad ankle. He started limping towards the door, but Bruce got up and caught his arm to support him. “You didn't tell me you were hurt – ”

“Just a sprained ankle. S'good.”

Bruce looked up at him and opened his mouth but before he could say anything, another, louder noise made them snap at the door. They exchanged a glance; then Clint pushed it open and limped out with Bruce's help.

Maria Hill was standing behind the counter, wearing a black leather jacket and black pants which made it look like she was in her uniform anyway.

She glanced up at them to acknowledge their presence, then kept brewing her morning coffee in her agent's kitchen. Clint glanced out the window; it was a cold winter morning. They'd slept all day and all night.

“Uh,” he said. “So... do we have an affair I don't remember about, or did you actually just walk right in?”

“If we had an affair, you would remember,” she said blandly, pouring herself a mug. “The door was open, Barton.”

 _Shit, Katie._ Between the two of them, not to mention Lucky who'd learned how doorknobs worked, Clint's apartment must be the least guarded place in Brooklyn.

“Doctor,” Hill saluted him, handing him a steaming cup.

He was staring at her like a deer in the headlights, but he quickly composed himself and accepted the coffee he couldn't drink. She wouldn't assume anything about them coming out of the same room. All Avengers, Young Avengers and most of the X-Men had found themselves bunk buddies – or cot buddies, or dusty floor buddies – at least once, and the innuendos had stopped being funny a long time ago. Hill poured another cup for Clint, then leaned against the counter, looking at him above the rim of her own mug. He briefly wondered how it _would_ be to have an affair with her, and realized he actually preferred not to imagine it.

His feet were cold and his ankle ached, so he hoisted himself up on a bar stool. The rumpled scientist did the same, and they all stayed in an awkward silence for some time.

“Look, Maria,” Clint eventually begun, “I know I was suspended but – ”

“I'm not here to scold you,” she said calmly. “I'm here to thank you both on behalf of all New York.”

There was another silence.

Indifferent to their staring, she went on, “The Sentry Project was developed in a facility of the Supreme Headquarters – before they became SHIELD, nearly a decade ago. You know about this,” she said, nodding at Bruce.

She sipped her coffee. “We wanted the best for this project and the best was Dr. Robert Bruce Banner. But you were slaving away on the Gamma Program, so you communicated your current results to a brilliant young scientist called Whitney Frost.”

“I remember,” the scientist murmured.

Clint frowned. “Uh – wait, I know that name.”

“I hope you do,” she said without looking up. “It was in your briefing for the Madripoor mission.”

“You don't... Jesus.” Clint rubbed his temples. “Madame Masque.”

Bruce startled and went very still. Hill put her cup down.

“Frost wanted to mix the gamma energy with the power of a strange blue cube we'd just found on the ocean floor. We were about to give her a green light when your _incident_ happened, doctor.”

She looked at him then. “We shut down all research regarding gamma energy. Frost was unhappy and quit, taking with her the plans of a living weapon potentially more powerful than the Hulk itself.”

“More powerful? I don't think – ”

“Clint,” she cut off calmly. “The Sentry had the power of a _million suns.”_

Clint looked askance at Bruce, who kept his eyes downcast.

“His name was Robert Reynolds,” Hill said in that same blank voice. “He was a gullible drug addict. He also was the single most powerful being of the century. And _you_ took him down.”

Clint held her gaze for a second, then shrugged.

“It's all thanks to Hulk, really. He distracted him.”

Bruce glanced up at him then. Clint gave him a small smile and took a sip of coffee.

“We're thankful to the both of you,” Hill said. “Or the three of you. But Fury wishes you would have warned us earlier.”

She circled her cup with both hands. “We are not always kind,” she admitted. “We can't be, not when it comes to handling such... _colorful_ people with the WSC looking over our shoulder. But our ultimate goal is to be a team. We can work together.”

Clint thought of several things he could say, some very impolite and others, strangely, not. But he said none of them. Bruce remained equally silent.

Hill sighed, but oddly enough, she didn't push it and got up. “Well, I'll leave you to it. We still have a lot of cleaning up to do.”

Clint knew they weren't done, but it was nice of her to grant them a bit of rest. He nodded at her, then waited until she'd opened the door to call, “How's Jessica?”

Hill stopped in the doorway and zipped up her leather jacket.

“Six fractures and a concussion,” she said. “She'll live.”

Her steps faded down the stairs and Clint's pager suddenly buzzed on the counter, startling Bruce.

 

_Good job._

 

_– Steve_

 

_P.S. Mockingbird and the Young A are in._

 

Clint felt something warm pool in his stomach and it had nothing to do with the coffee. When he looked up, he met Bruce's gaze. The scientist had read the text, but he was obviously too polite to ask. Clint just smiled at him.

“So. How about some tea?”

Bruce blinked at him, then gave him a small smile, pushing his cup away. “Um. Yeah. That would be nice.”

“If it's any consolation, the sewers tasted better than Hill's coffee,” Clint said, getting up then flinching when his ankle twisted. _“Ow – ”_

“I'll do it,” Bruce said at once. “Don't move.”

He squeezed himself between Clint and the wall to walk behind the counter, then gingerly opened a cupboard which turned out to be the right one. He took out the kettle, then briefly glanced over his shoulder when he realized Clint was watching him mutely.

“Clint, you should sit down.”

Clint closed in and leaned against Bruce's back.

The latter froze for a split second; but then, he relaxed and leaned back ever so slightly. Clint closed his eyes as the curly hair tickled his nose, and they just stood like this, for quite some time.

“So the antidote worked,” the doctor murmured after a while.

“The antidote worked,” Clint confirmed, eyes shut.

He felt Bruce hunch in on himself a bit. “I'm – I'm sorry. God. If I'd known it was about the _Sentry_ Project, I would have _never_ asked you to do this.”

He sounded like he was about to cry.

“Bruce,” Clint said. “I ended up in the hospital for six months because of a _Doombot._ This time I've only got a sprained ankle.”

Bruce didn't answer, but he pressed a little more against Clint and closed his eyes, too.

There was another long pause.

“It's so quiet,” Bruce murmured eventually.

“They evacuated the civilians,” Clint said under his breath. “There must be something like only two thousand people in all of New York right now.”

He felt the scientist chuckle rather than he heard him. Bruce let himself lean back even more and said softly, “You know... I kind of like that thought.”

 

*

 

For most of the following week, the streets remained strangely deserted and quiet. No cars to cut out dark trenches in the softly falling snow, and no sirens wailing outside the window. Clint knew silence made some people nervous, but Bruce and him weren't among them. They'd learned to enjoy the quiet.

The locksmiths were all gone, so Clint couldn't get anyone to open Bruce's door, since the scientist's keys were definitely lost – he'd kept them in his pants' pocket, which had been, as he gleefully said himself, a very stupid move. Since there were no elevators fixers either – whoever those guys _were –_ Clint couldn't go downstairs without a huge effort, and there was nothing worth the trouble down in the streets anyway. Everything was closed; everything was on hold. So Bruce would just have to stay in his apartment, until the holidays were over.

 

Clint didn't waste another second thinking about what was happening between them. He just let it happen instead. He didn't care anymore about anything; he was dizzy and silly and always in a dazed state of wonder. The white, silent streets down below were not helping him keeping his feet on the ground; everything felt surreal and rare, everything crystallized into a state of flawless beauty, as though this was some kind of honeymoon. And maybe it was.

Clint couldn't stop marveling at being able to lean against Bruce's shoulder, or draw the covers over their heads at night and whisper to each other like actual three-year-olds, or tangle their ankles together under the breakfast table. It was all such small things, such silly little things; but at the end of the day, what mattered was in the details.

Like the way Bruce's curls fell over his forehead, or like the gleam in his eyes which hadn't been there before. Or like that slight hoarseness in his voice which never went away, as though he had shouted himself raw a long time ago, and stopped talking ever since – only to start again now. Or like how he stayed barefoot even though winter would be here soon. Or just like the way he _looked,_ simply relaxed for once, simply at ease.

And it was all so _easy._ Clint always worked himself up like crazy in any relationships he got involved in. With Bruce, everything just flowed naturally. And it shouldn't have – they were too fucked up, and too different, and too straight and too male for it not to be awkward. Yet during this hovering week, it felt like they'd known each other for years.

By now, Clint knew he was in love, as stupidly and completely as people can be. There was absolutely no rational thinking involved in the way he felt; he was discovering it all as he went. He'd fallen in love with Bruce like he fell off buildings, with the same inevitability and the same recklessness. And this feeling made strictly no sense – which was precisely what made it undeniable, since it persisted to exist despite its sheer absurdity, growing and weighing delightfully on Clint's chest like Bruce's head when he slept against him at night.

Clint didn't know if Bruce was in love with him, or just taking a well-deserved break after ages of misery. But it didn't really matter; because the future wasn't until tomorrow, and the entire week fell on today.

 

*

 

“Wait, wait, you don't _know_ Dog Cops?”

Bruce blinked at him. “Um... no?”

“But you _must_ have heard of it.”

“...Not really.”

“We are _so_ watching Dog Cops,” Clint chanted. “I've got the first season right here.”

“Is it about dogs who are actually cops?” Bruce smiled as he sat on the couch.

“Yes.”

Clint couldn't help laughing a little at the look on Bruce's face. Lucky jumped on the couch to lay his head on Bruce's lap with a satisfied groan, and Clint limped back from the TV to sit on the other side of the scientist, snuggling against him in a way which couldn't possibly be good for his spine. Bruce glanced at him with a small smile, then put a light arm around his shoulder, not really tugging Clint closer, just – resting his hand there.

Clint closed his eyes and thought he could almost be content staying like this all night, without doing anything else.

Well, almost.

“Dog Cooops!” he said, pointing the remote at the screen. “Here we go.”

“Are you going to sing the theme song?” Bruce smiled.

“Don't tempt me.”

Someone knocked on the door. They froze for a split second; then Clint remembered he'd ordered pizzas now that life was slowly seeping back into the city. He paused the show and straightened up a little as he called, “Come in.”

Kate pushed the door open with her hip and slid in, carrying three pizza boxes in her arms and wearing a purple Santa hat.

“Met the delivery guy downstairs,” she said. “You know how there are crazy cat ladies and stuff? Your neighbor on the second floor is a crazy _hat_ lady. She wouldn't leave me alone until I...”

Her voice trailed off when she saw Clint and Bruce on the couch. Clint could feel the scientist stiffen against him, all the tension seeping back in.

But after a split second of surprise, Katie's lips stretched in a smirk as she shut the door with her foot. “You're making him watch _Dog Cops,”_ she snorted.

“Hey,” Clint protested. “It's the most awesome show in the history of ever.”

Bruce still looked a bit owlish as Katie walked in to drop the pizzas on the coffee table. She opened one of the boxes and fed Lucky the first slice.

“No wonder he likes you so much,” Clint groaned.

“It's alright to spoil him when you're literally watching an _entire_ show about dogs,” she pointed out. “Pizza, doctor?”

“Uh... yes. Thanks.”

He gave her a tiny, nervous smile, and she smiled in return before plonking herself down in the far end of the couch, at Clint's right hand.

“So Grills is doing better,” she said as the theme started playing.

“He is?” Bruce and Clint asked at the same time.

She stretched back. “Yup. They put him in Kings County.”

“It is a pretty good hospital,” Bruce murmured.

“We can go see him tomorrow,” Clint said. “It's like, a bus away from here. What about the rest of the team? Hill said no casualties, but...”

“Everyone got pretty banged up,” Kate admitted. “And I think a girl from the X-Men is in a coma.”

Silence.

“But she's got Xavier on her side and he's dealt with much worse.”

The theme song of the show chimed in, and they just fell into watching, without another word. Fifteen minutes later, Kate was glued to the screen as though she'd never seen a TV in her life; around the middle of the episode, Clint felt Bruce's hand settle back, hesitantly at first; but then the scientist briefly squeezed his shoulder.

Clint groped for Bruce's other hand and intertwined their fingers. And then he closed his eyes just for a second, letting the show flash in blurred colors through his eyelids.

 

“Aren't you gonna say something?” Clint still asked, much later.

The credits of the fourth or fifth episode were scrolling down the screen; Bruce was busying himself with after-midnight tea in the kitchen.

Kate could have asked what they were actually doing together, whether they were having sex, whether Clint was gay, whether he was out of his goddamn mind.

“If you really wanna hear it,” she said, “I don't think I've ever seen you look this happy before.”

Clint smiled at her. She passed him a slice of cold pizza and lay her feet across his thighs.

“Thanks, Hawkeye,” he murmured.

She leaned back against the armrest.

“Pleasure, Hawkeye.”

 

*

 

Clint's pager buzzed on the nightstand and woke him up. He sat up sleepily and looked at the tiny screen.

It was Steve.

Today was the day.

“Hey, Bruce,” Clint muttered. “You awake?”

“Yeah,” the doctor mumbled.

“There's a Quinjet for me on the roof, I have to go.”

Bruce's eyes snapped open and up at Clint. “What?” he said hoarsely, shaking off slumber as he propped up on his elbow. “Why?”

“We're having a press conference,” Clint said. “It was delayed so Cap could recover.”

The doctor's features morphed from anxious to wary. “...Oh.”

“Yeah. Wanna come?”

Bruce gave him a wan smile. “I try to avoid worldwide broadcastings in general.” He shivered with cold and tiredness; it must be something like 6 am. “But if I have to...”

“You don't have to,” Clint said.

The doctor, who was already pushing off the covers, stilled and looked up at him.

“You can just stay here and watch Dog Cops with a gallon of green tea,” Clint went on, before jabbing a finger at him. “If you get to the finale, though, wait for me.”

Bruce blinked at him; then he started laughing, softly, almost under his breath.

“Hey, I'm serious, man.”

“I know,” the doctor said, a smile still pulling at his lips.

It made his eyes crinkle. “Don't worry. I'll wait.”

“Yeah, you better,” Clint muttered, limping out of bed to grab the nearest pair of jeans.

 

God, but he _hated_ press conferences.

He wasn't meant to be in the spotlight – he was a _sniper,_ for Christ's sake. All those cameras made him nervous. All those lights made him nervous. All those _people_ made nervous. To the point that he was itching for his bow and stuffing his hands down his pockets not to let it show.

There was a SHIELD representative in a corner, but obviously, he was only here to cast unimpressed glances at the crowd of journalists and threatening glares at Tony Stark. That meant Fury had no clue what Clint was about to do. The billionaire had his arm in a sling and at least three broken ribs, yet he looked as bouncy as ever, about ready to make a gleeful mess of things.

“Clint,” he grinned. “Congratulations, you made it to your own party.”

“Don't call it that,” the archer muttered nervously.

Looking around, he realized his clothes didn't really fit in. Steve was in full costume, despite the cast on his leg; as were Mockingbird who wasn't too banged up, and Kate, and all her Young Avengers friends. Cyclops was also there, to Clint's astonishment – he guessed it kind of made... _sense,_ for the X-Men to support this, but he'd never even _talked_ to the guy – and even he was standing straight in the bright, yellow uniform of the Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. If he'd gotten hurt in the battle, it didn't show. Tony Stark was the only other one in civilian gear, but his perfectly tailored suit was putting Clint's jeans and sneakers to shame.

And it was all taking so damn _long._ Every official gathering of superheroes meant at least four hours of securing the room and two more hours to check every single fucking journalist's background. They had gotten there by six and now it was almost noon. Clint was way too nervous to long for sleep, though.

Kate walked to him and stared into his eyes. He forced himself to smile at her. “Looking good, Katie-Kate.”

“You alright?” she asked.

“Yeah – I'm fine,” Clint said, throat dry. “S'just a press conference.”

She knew it wasn't. She was the only person in the room who knew exactly why he was doing this.

Clint was _so_ glad Bruce wasn't there. With any luck, he'd never even hear about it.

“Okay,” Steve said into the mike, making Clint startle. “If you'll please sit down, we're ready to begin.”

Everyone instantly sat down and fell into religious silence. Perks of having Steve Rogers at the podium.

“First of all, I want to thank all of you for coming,” he said. “I know what happened was a huge shock to everyone, and we're truly sorry we could make no official statements until now.”

God, he was a natural. No rehearsed speech, nothing. Just good ol' America floating right from Steve's shining heart to the journalist's shining eyes. Clint was pretty sure they were broadcasting live, which only ever happened when Captain America was speaking, 'cause he was just that good. Clint closed his eyes and tried to visualize a target, but failed miserably.

“Of course, there's a lot of information we still cannot disclose, but we'll share everything we can with you. Today, however, is not the day for this debrief.”

Steve straightened up. “Today's the day for a statement we've been waiting far too long to make.”

In the far end of the room, the dozing SHIELD agent suddenly stirred up to cocaine-like awareness. Most of the journalists completely stopped moving.

“All the people on this stage today, and what they represent, support this statement. We're not vigilantes; we're a team dedicated to your safety. And with that in mind, I will now give the floor to the hero of the Sentry battle. Namely Clinton Francis Barton, codename Hawkeye.”

Hesitant, scattered applause rose as Steve came back towards Clint, who hissed “Did you have to tell them my fucking middle name?”

“This is it,” Cap only answered. “Go get 'em.”

Those words made Clint slightly less frantic – enough for him to reach the mike, but when he did, he realized his thoughts had turned blank in his head. Everything was floating in front of him like a summer haze.

Then it came into _sharp_ focus – every single detail, every glare – and he cleared his throat.

“Uh,” he said. “Hi. Hello. I forgot to bring my bow, but I'm Hawkeye. You can trust Cap on that.”

A journalist squirmed on her seat and Clint tried not to scowl at her. _Give me a fucking minute here, lady._

“I'm... obviously not a skilled speaker,” he said. “It's easier when I let Cap speak for all of us. And that's what he does, right? That's what he's for.” He swallowed. “Is it obvious that I didn't prepare this speech at all?”

Someone coughed behind him, probably Kate.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to stare into the black eye of the camera. “I did rehearse it, though,” he said. “I thought about it for weeks and weeks. Because what I'm going to tell you now... I think it's the most important thing I'll ever tell.”

They were listening to him. He didn't think they actually would. It gave him strength.

He swallowed, then articulated, “I killed seventy-six people.”

 

He'd never heard so deafening a silence.

 

“Or rather – Hawkeye did,” he went on. “Me, that is – not Kate Bishop. Who's an awesome kid, by the way, I hope you're all – ” deep breath, “aware of that.”

He realized he was looking down and cast his eyes up again.

“Now Tony Stark, on the other hand, is kind of a jerk,” he went on. “And I really must deny something he said about me: I'm not an assassin. Those seventy-six people, they died because I threw myself off a building which collapsed on them. Or because I couldn't take down the monster of the week in time. Because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I was in another wrong place at the same wrong time so I couldn't – save them.”

He took another deep breath. He was getting a little light-headed here. “Truth is, I'm probably responsible for a lot more deaths I don't know about. We all are. We're making a fucking mess every time.”

He scratched the back of his head. “But we're doing it to help. That's... I'm not going to tell you my life story, but people like us, they get pretty... manipulated. In more senses than one. At the end of the day, though, I've got a target to hit so people can live a bit longer. And I'm grateful for that. I'm – really grateful.”

He licked his lips and smiled nervously. “Sorry. Kinda rambling here, I guess.”

No one seemed to think so except for the SHIELD agent who looked like he was about to Hulk out. He'd probably called Fury and Hill at once, but the room was locked and secured until the end of the press conference. Tough luck.

“It should be simple,” Clint began again. “It should be so simple. _Helping_ people. But there's an ugly thing called collateral damage and we just can't fucking escape it.”

Someone raised a hesitant, shy hand. Clint smiled at the journalist and said, “Can I finish?”

The man nodded wordlessly and lowered his hand, eyes wide. Actually, they all kinda looked like deers in the headlights now. Except for the SHIELD agent who persisted in looking like he was choking on a live toad.

“Okay,” Clint said, exhaling loudly. “So, my point here is... my point is...” He was clenching at the podium so hard his knuckles were white. “My point _is...”_ He shook his head to clear his mind. “Fuck – sorry. Like I said, this should be simple but it's not. My point is, Cap's speaking for all of us, but there's another member of the team who's _taking the blame_ for all of us and _that...”_ He licked his lips. “I'm not gonna tell you who he or she is, alright? Only that this – this _person_ is blackmailed into... let's say, a very extreme form of community service. I bet you never did think about legal issues for superheroes.”

Hell, of course they did. Clint should get out more often. But nobody smirked or sniggered and he took yet another deep breath. “So, yeah – the World Security Council is currently pressuring SHIELD into channeling all charges onto a single person, and we won't let it stand.” He let out a shaky laugh. “Wow – uh, I guess that was the official statement. It did sound pretty official. I'm surprised, myself. Anyway.” Gripping the podium tight. “We're taking back the charges onto ourselves, and we're opening ourselves to trial. Please judge us. Please support us. Please let the WSC know that they don't need a scapegoat. That you understand what we're doing here.”

He let out another small laugh. “Hey – I know what you're thinking, and I'm not that kind of idiot. I _know_ we're probably facing ten thousand lawsuits for property damage alone. I know people won't be kind and understanding, just because I asked them. I know some people will want money and other revenge and other closure and I've just exposed each and every one of us.”

He looked at them, every single one of them. “That was a pretty stupid thing to do in the end, wasn't it? Telling you all this.” He smirked, for the first time, and said, “I'm sure Agent Ward over there agrees with me.”

A few heads turned to the SHIELD agent who heroically tried to maintain his composure. Clint sighed and scratched his head again. “But we do stupid things. I mean, I'm fighting robots and aliens with a bow. If that's not your definition of stupid I don't know what is.”

He realized he had stopped being sickeningly anxious at some point. Now, he just wanted to finish this. To do it right.

“So, Iron Man over there uploaded all our legal files on the Internet. It was my idea and I should have been the only one, but all the people standing behind me today decided to follow... to follow my lead. And I'm incredibly grateful to each and every one of them for that. So yeah, the legal files – the damage, the casualties, it's all there. Free for everyone to take. You might wanna hurry up though, 'cause I have a feeling it's gonna be brought down soon.”

“As if,” snorted Tony behind him, and Clint smiled a little.

He straightened up and filled his lungs with air for what he hoped was the last time during his speech.

“So, I guess that's it,” he said. “Like I said, I didn't prepare this so I don't have a fancy phrase to end it. Except maybe the one I tell myself every time I shoot at something.”

He looked into the camera and said, throat tight, “I hope I did the right thing.”

There was a split second of complete breathlessness.

Then he muttered again, “That's it. That's all. Thank you.” Before he stepped back he added, like an afterthought, “Merry Christmas.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, readers, the end of this fic is near. Thank you for commenting; it helps now more than ever before. ^^


	20. And the living is easy

 

 

 

 

 

Clint struggled with his keys for a good five minutes before he realized the door was already open. He walked inside, feeling numb with the gray light washing in – it was way past noon, but the sky was clouded over and there were no lights on.

There had been no questions after his speech. Or if there had, Clint hadn't heard them and Steve had answered for him. Ward had just shaken his head and vanished, talking hurriedly in his earpiece. Kate had lightly punched his arm, Tony had clasped his shoulder with a grin, and even Cyclops had given him a slight nod. Clint suddenly wondered how the injured girl from Xavier's school was doing. He hadn't even thought of asking, and now, well.

SHIELD couldn't do anything. The statement had aired and the legal files were being downloaded by hundreds of thousands of people. Clint wondered when the lawsuits would start piling up and how the WSC would react, but at the same time, he wasn't really interested in knowing. He didn't know whether Fury was mad – right after Hill had asked him to be more of a team player – but he'd done right by them; it had been obvious that SHIELD had no idea what their team was up to. The WSC couldn't blame them.

They probably would anyway.

Clint sighed, shrugged off his coat, then heard, _“...Merry Christmas.”_

In his _own_ voice.

 _Oh no._ His eyes snapped up and Bruce was sitting on the couch and staring at the screen, looking very pale. And of course it was the fucking press conference on.

Suddenly, Clint couldn't remember why the hell he'd thought that the doctor wouldn't find out about this as soon as it happened, along with the rest of the world. He let go of the door which closed behind him; Bruce startled, then got up and turned round. When he saw it was him, he turned off the TV without looking and dropped the remote.

Clint wanted to say something, but his mind had never been so blank. Bruce walked to him without a word, eyes very wide, and he looked drawn and pained and shaken, and he looked like he was physically unable to speak, too – the shock had been too great.

There was nothing Clint could say. Bruce had specifically told him to stay out of this. To let him deal on his own. Somehow, Clint managed to screw up even when he did the right thing, because he did it for all the wrong reasons. Always. Like when he'd given his bow to Katie...

He opened his mouth because he had to say _something,_ but then Bruce just pulled him in and kissed him.

 

It was Clint's turn to stiffen in astonishment. But after a second of stillness, he let his coat drop in a heap on the floor and opened himself to the kiss, and it was _amazing._

He could have cried with relief – but he hadn't cried since his circus days; so instead he kissed back, just as feverish and pressing, and maybe he could taste on Bruce's lips the same desperate gratitude he was feeling now. It was such a relief and such a surprise – he wasn't used to people actually accepting his clumsy gifts. He wasn't used to not fucking up.

When they parted, absurdly breathless, it was as though they'd just had a long, long conversation. They caught their breath for a second, inches from each other. There were so many questions to ask – how had Clint convinced everyone to do this, what was the state of Bruce's ledger now, was Clint himself in danger of a lawsuit, was Bruce really not mad at him for doing this.

They just kissed again.

They kissed again, and this time was their first time, finally, their true first time. Bruce's lips opened again under Clint's, wet warmth underneath soft warmth, and Clint sank into it with a deep shudder which wiped out his thoughts.

Really, he couldn't understand what all the fuss was about, what with sexual orientation and shit. Anyone had a mouth to be kissed, and Bruce's mouth made Clint melt inside and shake with something unbearably _soft,_ excruciatingly tender, something which sent his heart rate through the roof and it was too much, too painful in his chest, to the point that he almost wished it would just stop. Almost.

Fuck, he loved him so much.

When they parted, he caught Bruce's face in both hands, pressed his forehead against his for a minute, then kissed him again. Bruce kissed back, still a bit shy, still a bit clumsy, absolutely perfect. They parted again, shaky breaths tangling together, and then they kissed again; and when that kiss ended, there was another one, then another one. They could have moved to the couch, or the bed, or at least sat on the floor, or leaned against the wall.

But they just stood here, with the door still ajar behind them, and without a single word they kissed until it was dark.

 

 

*

 

“You know...” Clint murmured.

 

It was the first words he'd said in nearly twenty hours. They had made their way to the bedroom at some point and simply fallen asleep, side by side, their body heat slowly warming up the cold bed.

Clint should have added something after that, but he didn't. He was hypnotized with something too great and too dazzling for words. He turned on his side to get closer, and buried his face into the crook of Bruce's neck. Bruce shifted minutely to get comfortable, but that was all. They stayed there, breathing together, waiting for the sense of awe-inspiring sacredness to pass so they could move again.

 

Eventually, it all turned into a more normal idleness, which itself evolved into regular morning laziness; something which could be, at this point, shaken off. So Clint was able to mutter against Bruce's skin, “We could go visit Grills today.”

Bruce nodded slowly, eyes closed. “Yeah.”

Clint pulled back a little.

“And then get you a locksmith. And glasses.”

“Glasses would be nice,” Bruce admitted softly. “And I wouldn't mind getting my laptop back.”

He opened his eyes, smiled, then slowly sat up. Clint stretched himself and got up clumsily.

“Lemme just take a shower first,” he muttered.

He wondered if he wanted Bruce to join him and realized he very much did. He almost asked; but thought twice, and didn't. Mainly because the scientist would probably hear it as a come-on and it really wasn't Clint's intent. It felt like his entire body was _dying_ for Bruce – with the notable exception of his crotch; and he couldn't really see himself explaining that. So as much as he wanted to lather Bruce's back, and stand with him under running water, and see how his hair looked when it was wet, and hold his slippery, naked body, he didn't say anything and just left the room.

When he got out ten minutes later, Bruce was already dressed. His leather jacket had last been seen covering Grill's heaving chest, so he'd reverted to his big down coat, which somehow didn't look as sad as it did before. Clint grinned at him as he shrugged his long coat on.

“Man, you look like a homeless teddy bear.”

“If I had glasses on I'd tell you how _you_ look,” Bruce muttered.

But when Clint caught his arm on their way out, the scientist tangled their fingers together for a few seconds, before letting go and going down the stairs.

 

Clint was getting used to the splint and his limp was not nearly as bad as a week ago, so it only took them a few minutes to reach the bus stop; they were dropped at the hospital fifteen minutes later. The smell of disinfectant and the bright white walls made Clint nervous – but not too nervous, not today.

“Hi,” he said. “We're here to see Gil, uh...”

“Bernstein,” Bruce smiled.

“Third floor up, room 304.”

When they were in the elevator, Bruce outright grinned at him. “You don't know your tenant's _last name?”_

“Hey, until recently I hadn't even learned his first name. How the hell did _you_ know?”

“It was on his mailbox,” Bruce said, but his smile dimmed a little.

Clint thought he could guess why. There was a time when he gathered intel on everyone he found everywhere he went, too. Just in case.

He grabbed Bruce's shoulder and gave him a quick one-armed hug, just as the doors of the elevator opened on the third floor. Surprisingly – or maybe not – two SHIELD agents were guarding a door at the end of the hallway. Kings County _was_ one of the four or five hospitals they used, Clint remembered. He knew there was a good reason for it – something like, never gather more than three superheroes in a single room and never gather more than one _wounded_ superhero in a single hospital. So someone was here who'd been in the Sentry battle – perhaps Xavier's girl. Clint's stomach clenched a bit and he decided he'd go check on whoever was there afterwards.

 _“Hawkguy,”_ Grills yelled when he opened the door. “About fuckin' _time._ My dad already came to visit seven times an' he fuckin' hates me.”

He was lying in bed with at least three pillows to prop him up, an IV stuck in his left arm and his traditional baseball cap still jammed tight on his head, like the doctors hadn't been able to unscrew it.

Clint couldn't help giving him a huge, idiotic grin. “You dummy, you're not dying at all.”

“Hell yes I am. Have you tasted the _food_ they serve here?”

“Guess it's no grilling allowed,” Clint said, completely unable to stop smiling.

Bruce retreated in the hallway, suddenly back to his shy, awkward self. “Um – perhaps I should...”

“Now don' be stupid,” Grills called. “Bruce or David or whatever's your name – you saved my life.”

Bruce gingerly walked inside, and Clint wanted to pull him close again. Because Banner and the Hulk saved lives. They saved _so many_ lives, and people should have kept a record of _that_ instead of counting their losses.

“An' look what I got...”

Grills dangerously leaned over the side of the bed to reach inside a plastic bag, tugging on his IV until it looked ready to snap.

“I got it, man,” Clint said hurriedly. “What is... _oh_ – Bruce, check it out!”

The scientist's owlish look turned into genuine surprise when he saw the leather jacket Clint had just pulled out.

“S'a bit dirty and dusty but ain't no blood on it,” Grills said.

“I – ” Bruce stammered, eyes wide. “I... It's... thank you so much, Mr. Bernstein.”

“Now dontcha call me that,” Grills threatened. “It's Gil.”

“It's _Grills,”_ Clint stage-whispered to him.

Bruce smiled and said, “Thanks, Gil.”

“You traitor,” Clint muttered while Grills smiled victoriously at him.

 

*

 

He excused himself a few minutes later and walked out in the sterilized hallway, leaving Bruce to chuckle at Gil's endless list of complaints.

Clint walked to the pair of SHIELD agents and shook their hand – it was Carter and Thornton; they'd done a few ops together back in the days – then asked to be let in. They exchanged a glance; Carter sighed.

“Five minutes, Barton. Because it's you.”

 _Didn't know Carter liked me so much,_ Clint mused as he pushed the door – then he saw who was in the bed and he understood what she'd meant. Because the patient they were guarding wasn't Xavier's student.

It was Jessica.

 

Her breathing was deep and laborious, and her black hair had been nearly shorn under the thick bandages wrapped around her head. Her right leg and right arm were in a cast. She'd heal faster than Clint would, but in the meantime she was still lying there and pale as the sheets.

Clint walked around the bed and sat next to her; when he dragged the chair across the floor, her eyes opened.

“Sorry,” he said instantly.

She eyed him for a second, then started laughing quietly, no more than a hoarse breath not to hurt her broken ribs.

 _“Sorry,”_ she repeated, like she couldn't believe it was the first thing he'd said to her.

Clint smiled awkwardly and rubbed the back of his head.

“So,” she rasped eventually. “I guess we finally switched positions.”

“It sounds kinda dirty when you say it like that.”

She smiled and closed her eyes again.

“Carter told me everything you did,” she said in a wan voice. “And I saw you on TV yesterday.”

“Oh. That. Yeah.”

She didn't say whether she would decide to put her legal files on display as well, and he didn't ask. She stared at the ceiling for a long time.

“I was wrong,” she said softly. “Clint, what I told you – I was hurt.”

“I forgive you,” he answered. “Fuck, of course I forgive you, Jess.”

Jessica smiled a little. After a second, she held out her hand, and Clint took it, softly rubbing the palm with his thumb. She gave a tiny, minute tug; and he knew he could have leaned in. She wanted him to.

But he stayed where he was. Jessica's eyes sought his; he held her gaze, and she looked like she understood he wouldn't close in, no matter how hard she pulled.

“Oh,” she murmured, in a small, wan voice.

He let go of her hand.

“I'm so glad you're alive,” he said, staring at the cast on her leg.

The words sounded hollow now, but he meant them, and he wanted her to hear them.

“So – how long are you gonna stay here?” he asked.

She took a shaky breath, then managed a brave, trembling smile. “I'm not sure. Something like a month.”

“Okay. Poker nights will be there when you get back.”

“That's good to know,” she murmured.

Carter knocked on the door. The five minutes were up.

“I gotta go,” Clint said, getting up. “Get better soon, Jess.”

“Clint,” she called him before he could reach the door. “I'm sorry. I'm _really_ sorry.”

He wanted to explain that he wasn't angry at her, that he wasn't leaving her out of resentment or petty vengeance or some shit. He wanted to tell her he was thankful and embarrassed she'd just said this to him, because he _had_ hurt her and she didn't have to apologize like this. But he was no skilled speaker, wasn't he? Certainly not good enough to find the right words.

So he just repeated, “I know. I'm not mad at you.”

And he left.

 

*

 

He didn't say a word as they walked back home, and Bruce didn't ask him what was on his mind. Bless him for knowing the value of silence.

Clint thought of promises and trust and how some things deserved to be said before it was too late; and he thought of how, in his line of work, _before it was too late_ meant _right now._

“Hey,” he said out loud as Bruce closed the door of the apartment behind them.

The scientist looked up. “Yes?”

“Can we... talk?”

Clint could see how stiff Bruce suddenly grew. There were so many things better left unsaid between them, after all.

“Sure,” Bruce murmured in the most reluctant, guarded tone Clint had ever heard from him.

Clint turned away and focused on his hands gripping the back of the couch.

“About the Hulk,” he said. “'Cause I kinda promised him I would.”

He took a deep breath and murmured, “He asked me if I was okay, you know?”

Bruce didn't answer. Clint couldn't find it in himself to turn round and look at him. “He'd just taken a lightning bolt to the heart. You, uh, I think you felt it. And he asked _me_ if I was _okay.”_

Silence.

“I know people are scared of him. Not gonna lie, _I'm_ still scared – I mean, he's terrifying, it's true. But, Bruce, he saved my life – four times now. He _cares._ He's not just... anger. You know?”

He rubbed the back of his head. “And I was thinking, maybe you could... try to get along. Have each other's back. Instead of just being stuck with each other.”

“Get along,” Bruce repeated hollowly.

Clint swallowed and he was ruining it, he was ruining everything, but he had to keep talking, he always kept talking when he was fucking things up.

“It sounds stupid, I know. And I'm not you. God, I'm not you. No idea what it feels – what it's like. Not being able to...” He swallowed and finished lamely, “...drink coffee and stuff.”

He stuffed his hands down his pockets. “But I know I woulda liked it, when I was a kid. Knowing that I'd never be on my own wherever I ended up. Having someone who could protect me all the time. You know? With my brother and... my dad drinking and all...”

He heard a sharp breath and his stomach dropped with the conviction that Bruce was crying. He didn't turn round to check.

“I – I know it's not fair,” he mumbled, feeling awful. “God, I know that. But it's not fair for him either. You know? He's alone, and he doesn't understand, and nobody will explain a thing 'cause they all hate him. And you're the only one he's got but you hate him too.”

Bruce swallowed thickly and fuck, fuck, he was definitely crying.

“And I wanted to tell you this because... he's a part of you. And you gotta make that work, right? You gotta make your own stuff work out.”

He waited but there was only a dreadful silence.

“I'm sorry,” Clint mumbled.

Suddenly there was nothing else he could say. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

He waited there, for a terribly long time, and eventually he heard the door of the bedroom clicking shut and he understood Bruce had gone to bed, without eating, without saying a word, nothing.

Cooking pasta for one would have driven him to suicide so he just sat on the couch and marveled at how completely and suddenly he had ruined absolutely everything. It had to be said, he knew, he _knew,_ and he didn't regret saying it, except he did because everything which _had_ to be done ended in complete disasters in Clint Barton's goddamn world.

 

*

 

When Clint woke up the next morning, he was alone on the narrow, cold couch. He shivered, then got up and put on a sweater before walking to the bedroom.

“Bruce?”

No answer.

Clint's heart started beating faster. No, _dummy,_ he wasn't _gone,_ he wasn't gone two days before Christmas with nearly three feet of snow outside and nowhere to go, he wasn't gone just because Clint had been his usual stupid self, thinking he could say things as though he was some kind of person, as though he could –

He pushed the door open, holding his breath.

Bruce was right there, sitting cross-legged on the bed, with his hands resting on his thighs.

His head was tilted back.

His eyes were completely rolled upwards.

 

Clint encountered a second of complete terror but Bruce didn't look like he was in shock; his breathing was too deep and measured, as though this was just some form of extreme meditation. So Clint just stayed there in the doorframe, and waited.

After what felt like ages, Bruce's shoulders sagged and his head fell forward, eyelids falling shut. He gathered himself for a while, then slowly opened his eyes and blinked at Clint watching him.

“Oh,” he said, struck. “I... How long have you been watching?”

“Dunno. Couple of minutes,” Clint said, throat dry.

Bruce gave a shy smile, then got on his feet. He looked a little wobbly.

“Are you okay?” Clint frowned.

“Oh – nothing green tea won't cure.”

He smiled a little at a very baffled Clint. “He likes you, you know?” he said.

Clint gaped at him. “... _What?”_

“Can't say everything else worked out,” Bruce said more softly, “but he really likes you. I've never felt that before.”

Clint was speechless. Bruce frowned, then suddenly appeared to realize that Clint had obviously slept in his clothes. He blinked at him.

“Did you – Clint? Did you sleep on the _couch?”_

“Well – you know,” Clint winced. “Didn't want to...”

Bruce looked absolutely gobsmacked now. Clint wondered when was the last time someone had slept on a couch to give him his privacy, and guessed the answer was probably _never._

“Clint – I wasn't angry,” Bruce said wanly. “Even if I was, you don't have to... that's...” he smiled a bit sheepishly. “That's not how people usually react when they think I'm about to get mad.”

Clint couldn't help chuckling at that and suddenly he was so, so, _so_ relieved. Bruce had listened to – and actually tried to _follow_ Clint's advice, as though it was worth anything.

Bruce looked equally relieved now that the weariness and anxiety were melting off him in an early, shy spring. This was the second time he'd trusted Clint this deeply in only two days. Clint had no idea what to say, but he knew he really, _really_ wanted to kiss him now.

“Heyyy,” someone said which wasn't either of them.

They startled and turned round.

“Door was open,” Katie said, looking very amused and not sorry at all. “Am I interrupting something?”

 _“Katie,”_ Clint said, appalled, but Bruce chuckled slightly and gave her a slight nod. “Miss Bishop. Hello.”

She smiled and walked in. “Hi, Doc. You do know there's a dude trying to break into your apartment, right?”

Clint startled but Bruce said hurriedly, “Uh – no, that'll be the locksmith. I called him yesterday.”

Clint had no idea, but then again he'd wandered in the hallways for quite some time after leaving Jessica's room. Kate smiled triumphantly at him. “Alright then. Boss – it's officially practice day.”

“Kate – ”

 _“Practice_ or I quit,” she threatened.

Bruce chuckled again – and when had they become so relaxed around each other? Clint hadn't seen it happen; he didn't know either when Bruce had started to put so much faith into him, or when Clint himself had started noticing how breathing always seemed easier when they were in the same room. He had apparently lost all pretense of control over his own life. Not that it was new.

But this time, he kinda liked it.

 

*

 

“Alright,” Clint said with a deep breath out, lowering his bow. “You can try again.”

“God _dammit,”_ Kate swore. “That Robin Hood trick drives me crazy.”

“You're only missing once every six times,” Clint pointed out, nodding at the arrows Kate's own had split in half.

“That's one time too many,” she growled.

A small shifting sound made them turn round with the same brisk movement, exactly like two hawks on the same branch. Bruce stilled like a spotted mouse. He was watching them with round eyes, holding a cup of tea in his hand, frozen mid-cough with his fist in front of his mouth. He'd been writing equations in a little notebook, insisting that they really didn't disturb him and he'd rather stay here if that was okay with them, but he had apparently stopped his work at some point to gape at them.

“What?” Clint said, a bit puzzled, but Kate grinned and called, “Like whatcha see, Doc?”

“Yeah, that's... that's pretty fantastic,” the scientist said honestly.

Her grin widened. “Wanna try?”

Bruce's eyes went even rounder. _“Me?_ No – that's – no, I'm good.”

“Come oooon,” Kate drawled. “You know you want to. Who doesn't want to be a super-duper archer with an awesome bow? We're totally in fashion these days.”

Bruce had this completely trapped look of the class nerd asked to play against a team composed solely of quarterbacks. But then he blinked and looked like he started to consider it. “Uh. Well. Why not, actually.”

He got up and shyly walked around the counter. He made a move for Clint's bow, but Kate shook her head. “Not that one, Doc. You won't be able to draw it.”

Bruce frowned. “What?”

“Katie – ” Clint mumbled.

“Give it a shot,” she said, and she was having way too much fun with this but Clint couldn't see how to stop her anyway, so he just handed his bow to Bruce and explained in a few words how he was supposed to hold it. The scientist awkwardly got into position, glancing at him several times for confirmation. His stance wasn't that bad, actually; but of course, he was unable to draw the incredibly tense string.

“Here, try mine,” Kate said, laughing.

Her bow was a little easier, because she was younger and weaker than Clint, but Bruce still had a hard time fully drawing it. He gaped all the more at Clint, who just felt vaguely embarrassed. Seriously, this was no big deal – with nearly thirty years of archery behind him, of course he could handle a strong bow, especially when he was required to shoot at giant monstrous targets most of the time.

“Okay, here's an arrow,” Katie was saying. “Draw... bit harder... Careful with your finger here. And – shoot!”

The arrow landed with a dull _thud_ just outside the painted target.

Bruce made such a disappointed face that Clint couldn't help laughing. He looked like a kid who got told his birthday had been canceled.

“Hey – I was almost there,” the scientist protested, although he smiled faintly at Clint's laughter. “Can I have another arrow, just...”

He drew again and he was learning really _fast_ – his stance was almost perfect now, and the arrow didn't fall out of line like it happened to most beginners – but this time he knocked over a lamp.

Clint tried to stifle his laughter in his fist but he wasn't very successful.

“Stop it,” Bruce protested, still smiling as though by mistake. “It's not fair.”

“Of course – of course it's not fair,” Clint said, half-choking. “C'mon, try again.”

Bruce tried again and somehow managed to get his arrow stuck in the _ceiling._ Clint couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard – he leaned against the wall to wipe his tears, wheezing with mirth.

“You're such a dick,” Kate said.

“You don't understand,” Clint giggled. “Seriously! You don't get it?”

“Get what?” Bruce asked, puzzled.

Clint straightened up and grabbed Bruce's shoulders to look him in the eye. “Bruce,” he said, still snorting a laugh with each word. “Doctor Banner. Most intelligent man – in the world!”

“I'm not – where are you even going with this?”

Clint thought he was going to burst out laughing again. “Bruce,” he said, barely containing his giggles. “You're not wearing your _glasses.”_

Bruce gaped at him for a second; and then he started laughing too, a surprised, joyful laugh because he _actually_ hadn't figured it out, hadn't remembered they were supposed to get him glasses and forgot, and Clint didn't need anything else to collapse into laughter again and his own hilarity made Bruce laugh even louder and they laughed until they had stomach cramps.

“Oh dear God, there's two of them now,” Kate muttered.

Clint struggled not to fall apart again and grinned at Bruce. “C'mon, man, let's try again.”

Bruce drew, giving him a hesitant smile when Clint positioned himself behind him. Clint put his right hand on his right, and his left hand on Bruce's left arm. He guided him into aiming, then breathed deeply, long enough for Bruce to start following his lead. They waited for almost a full minute; then Clint tapped Bruce's right hand – and the freed arrow hit the bull's eye on their first try.

Clint grinned and hugged him a little from behind. “See,” he said.

Bruce smiled at him.

Someone knocked on the door; it was the locksmith, Bruce's door was open, and both the tenant and the landlord were required to come down and see for themselves. Kate waved them out, muttering something about five-years-olds and messes to be cleaned up.

They hurtled down the flight of stairs, still giggling at times like two idiots, and saw that the door was indeed open, thank you very much, and shut up, Banner, I'm the landlord, I'm paying for this shit.

Bruce wanted to get his laptop back, so they pushed the door and walked inside. At first, Clint didn't think much of it, because in his mind this was still Tyler's apartment. But when the door clicked behind them, he remembered the last time they'd found themselves here and what had happened.

The coldness of the window under Clint's palm; the softness of Bruce's hair between his fingers.

The floor was still littered with pages and pages of equations. Despite the central heating, the apartment was cold enough for the air to feel sharp against their flushed hot cheeks. Two or three breaths were enough for them to exhale the rest of their laughter.

“Here it is,” Bruce mumbled, crouching to pick up his laptop and wiping dust off it.

He straightened up and set it on the counter.

“Well,” Bruce said. “The door's open.”

“Yeah.”

Banner sounded shy and dejected all of a sudden. He rubbed the back of his head, then said, “So. Maybe I should... clean up a bit.”

Clint felt himself smile.

“Bruce,” he said.

The doctor looked up.

“Wanna live together?”

Bruce's eyes widened.

“Well,” Clint went on. “More like, keep living together? I mean – the apartment's still yours, you can use it as your lab or whatever. But do you want to, like, keep... doing... whatever it is we're doing?”

Bruce smiled, a true, warm, _wonderful_ smile, so relieved, so honest that Clint wanted to kiss him and bury his fingers through his thick curls. So he stopped talking and did exactly that.

The doctor kept smiling against his lips, closed his eyes and grabbed Clint's arms to tug him close and away from the counter – but then one of them slipped on an equation sheet and they kinda tumbled down against the couch.

“Ow,” Bruce said, trying to get off Clint. “Shit – wait, let me – ”

“No, s'alright,” Clint smiled. “Look, it's good here.”

He wrapped his arms around him and pulled him down on the floor on top of him; and then they kissed, parted their lips and kissed deeper, long and warm and Clint thought it was probably the best kiss he'd ever had.

Bruce huffed a laugh when they parted.

“What?” Clint grinned.

“Nothing,” the scientist said, eyeing him. “Clint Barton on a bed of math sheets.”

“Yeah, talk about a wet dream come true,” Clint snorted, but then Bruce leaned down and kissed him again until they rolled on their side so it'd be more comfortable, and Clint grabbed Bruce's thick hair and tugged ever so slightly, pressed and pushed his leg between Bruce's thighs – and felt the scientist harden against him.

They both stiffened and snapped their eyes open. Bruce blushed like mad and tried to untangle their embrace.

“Sorry,” he stammered, inching back with jerky movements. “God, I'm so sorry – it's been – it's been a very long time and – ”

Clint cut him off with a kiss and cupped him before he realized what he was doing.

Once again, he wondered if he wanted this. He dug deep inside himself to look for a hint of arousal. There was none. It was awesome, to feel Bruce hard and hot against his hand, to know that Clint was about to make him feel good; but it was all in his brain with no involvement whatsoever from his dick. No disgust either, just... nothing.

Well, good enough.

He palmed Bruce a bit more firmly and the scientist let out a loud, shaky breath which brought Clint back to reality. “Hey,” he murmured. “If you don't want me to – ”

 _“No,”_ Bruce gasped, tugging him close and pressing his face against Clint's shoulder, “no no no, please don't stop, _please – ”_

He sounded so desperate that Clint couldn't help remembering the first time he'd kissed back, so frantic and hopeless – _this is the last time you'll ever get to do this._ He was literally terrified Clint might stop. He hardly dared to believe it was happening.

 _Bruce._ Clint flicked open the button of Bruce's pants with his thumb and pushed his hand inside. He felt something he knew, closed his fingers and gently tugged Bruce free. The scientist was holding onto him for dear life, and Clint didn't know if it was out of embarrassment or something else.

He'd never touched another man like this, but he'd touched himself often enough to know what to do with a cock. And he had steady hands and nimble fingers.

He kept Bruce close, tangled their legs together and did it without a second thought, because even though he shivered and his stomach twisted in almost painful delight, it was all because of Bruce's slight gasps in his ear, and his fingers clenching at his shirt, and the spasms rippling through his body, and suddenly Bruce was gripping tighter and panting in near panic, “Clint, Clint, _Clint – ”_

Clint felt him shooting hot and thick, and he kept going until Bruce's entire body relaxed. Then he wiped his hand on an equation sheet – real classy, Barton – and hugged Bruce tight and kissed him and, yeah, come to think of it, _this_ had to be the best kiss he'd ever had.

Bruce was limp and warm against him, completely dazed with pleasure. They stayed close, breathing together, smiling at each other, and it was as though the world had narrowed down to one little cocoon with them inside.

“Do you – ” Bruce breathed eventually. “Can I – ”

His hand was slipping down, but Clint grabbed his wrist. “Nah, don't bother,” he said. “If I wanted to make a really bad pun, I'd say down here is the straightest part of me.”

It took Bruce a few seconds to understand.

“But – ” he stammered, blinking. “But you just – ”

“Yeah, I did,” Clint smiled, pulling him in again. “Never said it made sense. I just wanted to.”

He felt so good lying there in their shared warmth. Better than anything, better than sex, and Clint had never thought he'd ever think something like that, _do_ something like that, but God, he was happy, he was so happy.

He closed his eyes and breathed, “There's nothing else I need.”

 

“What were you doing?” Kate asked when they got back up to Clint's place.

The honest answer to that would have been _Bruce Banner,_ and the thought made Clint snort. He'd just kissed and held Bruce for almost an hour and all he wanted was to start all over again. He felt like he was floating. Everything was something to smile about. He was stupid and ridiculous and pathetic and so completely screwed up but he didn't care. He didn't care.

He closed his eyes, and breathed in his own happiness until he felt his chest could burst out.

 

*

 

The radio alarm clock went off at 6am the next morning, too early for Clint who groaned a bit and slid further down the heap of covers. He'd meant to shut it off, but he kept forgetting to do it. Although he didn't actually mind the bliss of going back to sleep.

Bruce got up early, though, maybe only one or two hours later. He chuckled a bit at Clint's repeated groan; he laughed so easily now.

He got out of the bedroom and Clint heard him pad back and forth in the kitchen until he came back inside and said softly, “We're out of milk.” He grabbed his bag, shrugged his jacket on. “I'll be back in a minute.”

He laced his fingers with Clint's and squeezed, once; Clint smiled vaguely in his half-slumber and drew the covers tighter around him.

Bruce left the bedroom door ajar on his way out and Clint focused again on the sounds he made. He heard Bruce stepping into his shoes, then zipping up his jacket, unlocking the bolts and leaving.The door clicked shut behind him.

 

 

And he didn't come back.

 

 

 

 

 


	21. Amazing Grace

 

 

 

Insidious.

 

Like a gas seeping inside and slowly filling up the room, colorless and odorless, a gas filling it all up until suddenly there was no room left for oxygen and he choked, he couldn't breathe and choked and there was anxiety stuck in his throat and blocking everything and he couldn't get it out.

It was as insidious as time itself, and Clint hadn't realized that those two perfect weeks could only be a countdown, a countdown of one million two hundreds and nine thousand six hundred seconds seeping away down to zero, and now point zero had been reached with a _click_ and the bomb was exploding in his hands and shattering everything. All this happiness he'd thought he'd found – it had been only _two weeks,_ idiot, fucking idiot.

But no, it had been longer than that, much longer, it had started the day Bruce had knocked on his door to mutter in a shy voice that he needed help, maybe it had even started the day this scrawny dude had shown up on a stolen bike and thrown a vague one-liner in Steve Rogers' general direction before punching a giant metal whale in the face, and how was this his life, how was this _anyone's_ goddamn life...

_I'm freaking out. I'm freaking out._

Yes, it was like a gas, like time, like a poison, because Clint had gotten up happy and well-rested, and he'd made coffee thinking that Bruce would be back with milk in a few minutes. A few minutes which were already fifteen, then twenty, then thirty, _what's taking him so long,_ and then one hour and two and three and Clint had gotten down the stairs without thinking, and now he was in the snow despite his bad ankle and he was walking in circles in front of his door in complete panic because Bruce wasn't coming back and Clint should go _looking for him_ but on the other hand he was just freaking out and what if Bruce _did_ come back and found the apartment empty, fuck scientists who didn't even own a phone –

“Freaking out, I'm freaking out, I'm freaking out,” Clint muttered, and what could he _do?_ He didn't even know whether he should listen to the little angel on his right shoulder or the little devil on his left. _He's fine, you idiot, he could be late for a thousand reasons._ But the devil, the dark little devil, _He's gone and you already know he's never coming back._

No, no, no, Clint couldn't let himself go ballistic now. He was puffing small clouds in the freezing air. Fuck, the very day before Christmas. He didn't give a shit about Christmas. Fuck, this couldn't be happening.

Not coming back. _Not coming back?_ As in, he'd left on his own volition? Like just walked out the door and left.

Was it because Clint had – ? On the floor yesterday – ?

But no, no, idiot, why would Bruce run away because of _that,_ when nothing else had made him run, and he'd called out _Clint_ in that desperate voice as though he'd forgotten what pleasure even felt like...

Oh, fuck, fuck _,_ but then if he wasn't gone on his own, it meant he was being held against his will, and that was even worse – _that_ – who had the power to do that? Why? How? And Clint was just wasting his time here, walking in circles in the snow, in fucking circles like an idiot, a panicked idiot, dummy, hopeless, helpless _dummy –_

But no, no, no, he was just _freaking out,_ but it didn't _mean_ anything, Bruce was four hours late now and it didn't mean a fucking thing, maybe he'd just run into Hill who'd taken him away for an impromptu debrief and he just hadn't been able to contact Clint because he had no fucking _phone –_

But a pager. Hill. A pager? A _pager!_ Clint had given him Hill's pager!

 

Clint didn't think he could go up six floors so fast with a fucking splint on his goddamn ankle. He burst inside his apartment – he'd left the door open, again, Bruce wasn't here anymore to close it on his way out – and dove on his pager.

Nothing. Not a single thing.

He texted Hill's pager with trembling fingers. _Bruce. Where are you?_

He put his pager down on the counter and started pacing the room like he'd paced the snow, the beautiful snow which had fallen overnight, now completely ruined and dirtied by his boots, back and forth, back and forth like a caged tiger.

His pager buzzed on the coffee table.

He all but pounced on it. He lit up the screen with anxiety twisting and clawing at his stomach, ready to implode in panic or explode in relief.

 

 _Bruce,_ read the text. _Where are you?_

 

He had to read it seven times to understand that it was his own message. That this was _Hill's_ pager.

Of course – Clint's pager was on the _counter,_ fucking moron, not the coffee table, shit, _shit,_ of course, he'd _just_ put it there, for Christ's sake...

Bruce had left his pager here. Which made _sense –_ he'd just gone out to buy some fucking milk. Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. No more. But it also made sense if he'd chosen to leave, leave everything behind, leave for good, once again.

But he wouldn't. He wouldn't. Right? Had Clint done something wrong? Something so dreadful he hadn't even realized it? He did that all the time, it wouldn't come as a surprise. He tried to remember, ran the last two weeks in his head all over again; but it hurt so much because it had been so fucking _amazing,_ something he'd never thought could happen in real life, let alone to _him._ And now it was just a dream to wake up from alone.

It was as though Bruce Banner had never existed. There was no – no extra toothbrush in the bathroom, no stubs in the nonexistent ashtray, no t-shirt with his smell still on it, none of that shit. Nothing left.

 

Maybe Clint was just working himself up. Maybe Bruce was going to come back later.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was 4am now and Clint was still standing by the couch, holding Hill's pager in his hand, with the text message written on the tiny screen. _Bruce. Where are you? Bruce. Where are you. Bruce._

_Where are you?_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _“Clint, it's four in the_ morning – ”

“Kate I'm freaking the fuck out. Bruce left this morning to get milk or some shit and he's not coming back.”

 _“What? He's – wait –”_ He heard a ruffling of sheets. _“But – Clint, you just... you just waited all day?”_

“And what the fuck was I supposed to do?” he yelled in the phone.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, it was starting again, all over again, people being heroes and knowing what to _do,_ and Clint Barton was the dude with a bow who was always at sea and he couldn't even go looking for the man he loved –

_“Okay. Calm down, Clint. You have to calm down.”_

“No, Katie, no, because either he's been taken, either he left and I can't... and I don't even know what to... Fuck. Oh, shit, _fuck.”_

_“Clint, you've got to stop. I'm sure it's not as bad as it looks. Maybe – ”_

He hung up. He hung up because he couldn't talk, couldn't listen, couldn't do anything for more than three minutes at a time.

 

Kate showed up on his doorstep exactly fifty-two minutes later.

“Clint,” she breathed when she saw his face, and he briefly wondered how he looked, what with strain and stress and pain from his goddamn ankle he'd dragged around all day because he just couldn't stop pacing. “Clint, it's gonna be fine. It's _Bruce Banner._ What could possibly happen to him?”

Clint swallowed. He was an idiot. He was an idiot, because he'd tormented himself all day long and he hadn't thought of that.

“I hadn't – hadn't really thought of that,” he stammered feverishly. “But it's – shit, I'm crashing my car again, right? You said so – always needed someone to steer the... to steer the...”

“No, Clint. Forget about what I said. Sit down.”

“I can't, Kate, I can't sit down, I just don't – God, I'm in love with him, you know that, right? You figured it out?”

“Yes, Clint. Yes.”

“But I'm not gay.”

“Clint, I really don't care if you're – ”

 _“No,”_ he said strongly. “You don't get it. I'm really just _not gay_ – fuck, if I was I'd be wearing a rainbow uniform with goddamn ostrich feathers on my head just to piss SHIELD off, and you know it. Katie, _I fell in love with him anyway._ Do you get it? Do you get what I'm trying to – have you ever felt something like that? Have you ever – ” His hand was clenching convulsively over his chest. “ – felt... something like...”

They both looked at each other in complete helplessness.

“No,” she mumbled. “No. I can't say I have.”

And for some reason this was what deflated Clint's stress.

He sat down on the couch like a puppet snipped free of its strings and stared in space with haunted eyes. “Shit,” he stammered, eyes wide. “Shit.”

He took a deep, deep breath. “What am I supposed to _do,”_ he muttered.

His eyes fell on Hill's pager again.

“SHIELD,” he said slowly.

She blinked. “What?”

His scrambled thoughts were slowly starting to flow in the same direction. “SHIELD. They found Loki in only a few hours and he was a goddamn _shape-shifter._ And if it's them – if it's actually _them,_ I'll know.”

He got up. “Can you take me to the Avengers Mansion four blocks down?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly, standing as well. “Let's go.”

He would have to go down the stairs once more and fuck, he'd probably sprained his ankle all over again, pacing round like that.

 _Why didn't I fix the goddamn fucking elevator,_ he thought – and absurdly he wanted to cry.

 

*

 

It only took them five minutes to get to the mansion; a light rain was beginning to fall, like acid on the snow, like dying fireflies in the orange glow of the streetlights. Kate parked her bike on the sidewalk and Clint got off before it had even stopped. He strode over to the front and was about to reach the door when someone brutally grabbed his arm.

He jerked himself free and snapped round at the young man – more of a kid, really – who tried to grab him again. “No, don't go in there,” he said, breathless like he'd ran three blocks without stopping. “You can't go in there right now!”

“Who the fuck – ”

“Boss?” Kate called, hurrying towards them.

The kid cast her an anxious look, then turned back to Clint and said, “Clint? Listen to me, man – you have to go home right now.”

Clint knew that voice.

“Wait – but – you're... you're _Spider-Man.”_

“No,” the kid said, still panting. “No, right now I'm just Peter and _we can't stay here.”_

“Look, I'm sorry but I have to – ”

“If it's about Banner, he already left the country by now.”

Clint felt his blood leaving his face. _“What?”_

But then lights turned on inside the mansion and Peter cursed between his teeth – he wrapped an arm around Clint's waist and suddenly the world swept away and upside down.

Spider-Man had carried Hawkeye before, but it had been in broad daylight and in the adrenaline of battle. Orange lights flashed past Clint's eyes in quick succession and the sky wasn't where it should have been and the night whistled in his ears and his stomach dropped and heaved and dropped and heaved and dropped and a great square of concrete was coming at them and they landed hard on a freezing rooftop.

Clint let himself roll on the frost and clanged into something lying on its side – a grill. This was _his_ building.

He scrambled up to his feet, still wobbly and nauseous.

“Katie – ” he stammered, walking towards the edge.

“She's fine!” Peter hissed, grabbing his shoulder again. “She won't be targeted. But you were the leader and you can't trust the mansion right now – it's too obvious. Everyone will go looking for you there.”

Clint brutally shook free. “Okay, Civilian Spidey – _what the fuck is going on?”_

Peter just shook his head with a weariness which didn't fit his young features. “The usual, man. For me anyway.”

He took out a crumpled envelope from his pocket and slapped it against Clint's chest. “Here. And just so you know – ” his eyes met Clint's, deep and earnest. “I'm not mad at you. Okay? What you did – that was the right thing.”

Clint blinked at him; it was Spider-Man's voice, but it was not his face, and it wasn't his playful tone either; and it wasn't the flashy red-and-blue suit, but everyday clothes; and before his brain could process the discrepancy, Peter was gone and Clint was alone on the roof.

He looked down at the thick envelope he'd instinctively clutched to his chest and turned it in his hands. His stomach heaved again when he saw the narrow, untidy handwriting he could have read with his eyes closed.

 

 _From the_ _Wizard_

 

He went one floor down, texted _I'm home_ to Katie, turned on a solitary lamp and sat on the couch. It was all black and white out the window; Clint was shivering with cold and stress and shock and tiredness. He opened the brown envelope.

Inside were two dozen flyers. Pizza ads, taxi ads, sighted ads, dozens of stupid ads with no connection whatsoever between them all – except for one thing: there was nothing printed on their backs.

Talk about emergency writing paper.

The pen had left deep engravings in the glazed surface, bumps and lines under Clint's fingers as though he was reading the letter in braille at the same time he was reading it with his own eyes.

 

 

 

 

_Clint,_

 

_I don't know where to start._

 

_Somehow, I feel like the fact I left will speak louder to you than anything I could say. I wish I didn't have to write this down. I wish I could be here and tell you again and again that it's not your fault, until you believed me. Although even that might not change a thing, because you always seem to think you're not worth it. Which is complete nonsense. But you must be used to nonsense since you were able to love me._

 

_You saved me. In ways I can't even begin to describe. I don't know how I looked the first time I came to see you, but truth be told, there was not much left inside. Then you took all the details which are life, all the small details I'd forgotten, and you revived them for me. Yesterday was the first time I laughed in six years. And I guess you're probably thinking now that it wasn't much, that anyone could have done the same, but you're wrong, you're just plain wrong. It's you. It couldn't have been anyone else._

 

_I never actually talked to you about that press conference, and perhaps I should have. SHIELD sent me my updated file the next day; someone just dropped it at the door while you were in the shower. I read it in the hospital by Gil's bed and tossed it in the trash on our way out. I don't really know why I didn't tell you about it. It said that almost 90% of the charges upon me had melted away._

_But the remaining 10% were still enough to sentence me to death, and that's exactly what the WSC did last night when they unfroze my record._

 

_Legally, my body is military property, which means the army has the right and the responsibility to take me down. They'd lost that right when I was placed under a higher authority after the Chitauri invasion. But the WSC has now relinquished its power over me. They put all supernatural criminal records online, including mine, on the grounds that according to your official statement, all superheroes are now legally responsible for their actions._

 

_Peter's the one who told me all this; in civilian life, he's a journalist, and he just happened to be there for the WSC's own official statement. It's going to be tough on him as well, but Spider-Man never really stopped being considered a criminal anyway. Peter was clever enough to guess it was primarily aimed at me; that's why he was able to come get me at once. We're not exactly friends, but I've known his true identity for a little while now; it's kind of a funny story and I wish I'd had the time to tell you about it. Anyway, he got me out of town before I could be cornered by Ross and the likes of him._

 

_I know what you're thinking now, and you're wrong. You're wrong. It's not your fault. You were trying to do the right thing, and you did it, and I wouldn't have it any other way. You told me once that the guy who should take the blame for shooting me is the guy who shoots me. Well, it's the same thing now. You and Cap and Tony never meant to expose all superheroes, only the willing ones; your act was an act of courage and kindness which has been twisted by the WSC. I guess this is only the beginning of some sort of civil war, but for me it just means I'm back on the run._

 

_I can't tell you where I'm going in case this letter falls into the wrong hands. But Clint, I'm taking with me two weeks of winter in Brooklyn. And also your leather jacket. I can't remember the last time I've owned a piece of clothing for this long; I hope it'll last me a bit more. Not going to lie, it's going to end up in shreds eventually, I'm afraid. But no one can ever take the memories away from me. I won't let myself forget the details this time. You gave me the will to start trying again, with the Hulk, with everything else, and I will keep trying. For you. I will keep trying._

 

_Please say hi to Kate and Gil for me. Sorry I couldn't get us milk. And sorry about the flyers; I didn't have anything else to write on. Also – I called an elevator mechanic the other day, and I think it's working now. It was meant to be a surprise or a joke or both. I know holidays don't mean much to the both of us, but let's call it my Christmas present to you. You already gave me mine._

 

_I've got to go now. I hope Peter can reach you in time. Not all superheroes are your teammates, and I'm scared some of them might blame you for exposing their legal record. Take care of that ankle, will you? And take care of yourself._

 

_Goodbye,_

 

_Bruce_

 

 

Clint felt like the world was expanding into infinite darkness around his pathetic little light. He read the letter over and over again. Thinking of what Spider-Man had told him. Turning the flyers between shaking hands, trembling hands, searching for something else, something more, something which wasn't there.

He couldn't breathe. His throat and chest were convulsing and his eyes burning as though they were catching fire. He thought he knew the feeling, but it couldn't be. It had been so long.

“I would've left with you.”

His voice sounded wan and haunted to his own ears. Tears welled in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. He took a gasping breath, thought he was drowning, felt his face crease in a scowl and choked on a sob.

_“I would've left with you.”_

Bruce probably knew it, and this was probably the very reason he hadn't mentioned it in his letter. He'd been so far ahead from the start, so much smarter than Clint who'd naively tried to _do the right thing,_ poor wretched dummy.

And now it burned and it hurt and there was no air left in the room, and maybe Clint had been the first to make Bruce laugh in years; but Bruce was the one who'd made Clint able to cry again.

 

In the bedroom, his radio alarm clock went off. Six o'clock. _Amazing grace. How sweet, the sound that saved a wretch like me._

Clint took a deep, gasping breath between his sobs. _I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see._

 

It was Christmas morning.

 

 

 

 

 


	22. Epilogue

 

 

 

 

 

The tiny TV was on above the bar, and Captain America was being interviewed for the umpteenth time about what they all called the _Barton Act_ now.

The barman didn't care; he didn't even speak English, which wasn't that surprising for such a small town in Germany. As a matter of fact, he only left the show on because, as he told all his customers, Steve Rogers had saved his uncle's life in Stuttgart, and the man behind the flag should be entitled to a minimum of respect.

He was uninterested in the debate itself, which was actually quite wise of him; since as was the case in all mainstream facts, this one had been deformed, twisted, thwarted until it hardly even made sense anymore. The attempt of giving superheroes a choice between openness and staying under the radar had turned into the exposure of all superheroes after the WSC's apparent mistake. Which had led to a debate about whether all superheroes should go public. Which had led to a debate on whether all superheroes should be registered by the government. Which had led to a debate about which governments exactly could be trusted on this point, especially after the Sentry incident. Which all had, sure enough, brought up the old bitter resentments on which any debate inevitably fell back eventually.

All in all, four months of raging politics with no progress whatsoever one way or another. Hence Captain America looking drained on set – but still managing to smile like it was his first time smiling. Hell, who knew how the situation was going to evolve now.

 

 

The door jingled open and a black-clad man walked into the bar. And didn't that sound like the beginning of a joke?

“Hey,” the black-clad man said. “I'd like a beer, please.”

“Ah, no English,” the barman articulated. “Sorry.”

“Oh.” The black-clad man considered. _“Ein Budweiser,”_ he finally said.

The barman grinned at him and poured him a pint.

The man took his time drinking; he rubbed his left ear absently, as though trying to scratch an itch without much conviction. Then he suddenly looked up and asked in flawless – if heavily accented – German, “I'm looking for the monster.”

The barman froze. He turned away and started wiping a glass with a mechanical gesture. On the TV, Steve Rogers kept talking in a tinny, distant voice.

“A monster?” the barman asked eventually.

“Yes,”the black-clad man said. “I've heard. I know. I don't want any trouble; I'm part of the rescue team. You understand.”

His phrasing was clear but halting, as though he was being told his lines. The barman kept wiping his glass almost long enough to start wearing it down.

“We don't want any trouble,” he said eventually.

“I'm not trouble,” the man assured him. “I'm the opposite of trouble.”

The barman thinned his lips for a second, then muttered, “They're in the barn down the river. Caught him an hour ago.”

 _“Caught_ him?” the man repeated.

“Well yes. Your friends did.” The barman raised an eyebrow. “You did say you were part of the rescue team?”

“I am,” the man caught himself. “Thanks. Anyone to bring me there? I'm in kind of a hurry.”

“Klaus,” the barman called, startling a man who'd started raising himself from his seat. “Bring this gentleman to the barn.”

 _“Ja,”_ Klaus muttered. “This way.”

 

*

 

“Are you _sure_ you know where to go?” the black-clad man asked hurriedly in broken German for what sounded like the tenth time.

“Yes, give me a minute. I'm new in town.”

“Then why did the barman tell _you_ to guide me?”

 _“Because_ I'm new in town. I do all the chores. Ah – I think it's that way.”

An old barn was appearing from behind the poplar trees.

“Is that it?” the black-man asked.

“Yes – seriously, though? _I'm looking for a monster._ Is that how secret agents do it? Not very secret, if you want my opinion.”

“I don't,” the black-clad man breathed. “And I'm not a secret agent, okay? Now you might wanna stay back.”

“I _knew_ you weren't with those other guys. I knew it.”

“Mind keeping it down?”

“Come on, there's not much fun around here.”

The black-clad man had no time for this shit, and he made it known by dropping the subject entirely. He bent down and leaned against the wooden wall of the barn to peer between the disjointed planks. Something moved in the hay.

He counted to five with his fingers, then got up and banged open the door before walking inside with his gun pulled out. _“Freeze!”_

The three guys inside startled and raised their hands. Amateurs – always keep your weapon near. Theirs were stacked by the door. The man looked at the floor – and there _he_ was, tied up to a wooden post and fed drugs through an IV which had probably been set in a hurry to keep him from literally bursting out their hands. 

“Alright,” the man panted. “You're all going to line up against the wall. And say a last prayer.”

The other three paled and looked between each other.

“Now!”

“What's the hurry,” Clint murmured behind him in English.

The black-clad man turned with his weapon raised – and Clint disarmed him while kneeing him in the stomach and completing with a left hook to the face for good measure. That did the trick and the black-clad man – whoever he worked for; Hydra? - fell down in a shapeless heap.

“Clint, Klaus, same difference,” Clint muttered. “Told you I was new here, man. And you shouldn't have let me in with you, either. Spying 101.”

He was lucky whoever he was up against hadn't sent an actual German field agent, though, or his cover would have been blown from the start. Accents had never really been his thing.

“Alright-y,” he said in English, clicking his tongue. “Gentlemen, _don't_ line up against the wall. As a matter of fact, fuck off as fast as you can before I change my mind.”

He cocked his gun and the other three ran out in panic. Amateurs, really. _Those_ weren't agents; more like thrill-seekers, smugglers, stupid kids. Whatever.

Clint put his gun in his back pocket and shuffled through the hay to get to the prisoner. He crouched and peered into the darkness.

“Hey,” he said.

Anxious yellow eyes looked up at him from the shadows.

Clint felt guilty at the bone-deep disappointment washing through him. He shoved that aside; right now, the kid – he was a obviously a mutant, but mostly he was just a kid – could use a bit of help.

“Well,” Clint told him, coming closer. “Looks like it's just you and me now.”

He took out his knife and the young man startled violently, but Clint shook his head. “Nah, don't worry, I don't bite.” He cut off the ropes around the blue, bony wrists, then put away his knife before carefully taking out the IV. The young man flinched again but didn't say anything. Albeit a deep blue, his skin was obviously bruised and battered.

“Those assholes,” Clint said, almost dreamily.

He sat cross-legged, then zipped open his bag and took out a bottle of water and a banana. The young man eyed Clint again, golden gaze wary and wild; then after a moment of uncertainty, he snatched it from his hands and made the food disappear in seconds before drinking all the water in three long gulps.

Clint gave him a minute, then asked softly, “What's your name?”

Again with the feral blinking.

“You can speak,” Clint reassured him.

The young man shuddered a bit.

“...Kurt,” he whispered. “Kurt Wagner.”

He had white pointy teeth, and there were strange lines carved into his face like he'd done them himself. Maybe he had. His clothes must have been very colorful once, but now they were wilted and ragged. Somehow, they looked familiar.

“Hey. Are you a carnie?” Clint asked.

The young man had cast his eyes down; he looked up shyly. “Uh... The circus, yes? I am. Yes.”

“That's great, man, me too,” Clint grinned. “Left a while ago, though. Name was Hawkeye.”

Wagner looked a bit more reassured. “And I – Nightcrawler.”

“Nice. Very catchy.”

The blue lips quirked a tiny smile. They shook hands; then Clint clasped his wrist and helped his fellow carnie up. He looked a bit wobbly, but overall fine.

“So – what do you do?” Clint asked. “What was the IV for?”

“I'm... I move around.” Kurt licked his lips with a very pink tongue and rubbed his arm, looking like he was searching for the right word in English. “Instant... transport.”

“Oh. Yeah. Could see why they'd keep you drugged.” Clint sighed. “You should go to Xavier's school, man. I know it's kind of a long way, but I've heard it's a good place.”

“It's closed now,” the young man said. “Because of the Barton Act.”

“No, it's not,” Clint assured him. “That's anti-hero propaganda. The X-Men weren't really liked even before this whole shit, you know. As long as Xavier's alive, the school will stay open.”

A gleam lit up in the yellow eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah. And with your gift, you can get there in no time.”

Clint startled when his phone rang in his pocket. “Oops. Hey – could you grab all those guns and dump them in the river? Back in a sec.”

He walked away and leaned against a wooden pole. “Hey, Katie-Kate.”

 _“Clint?”_ Her voice was echoed with static. _“Find anything?”_

“Dead end,” he said. “Well, more of a false lead – _monster_ is kind of a generic term these days. And there's been a bit of a commotion.”

_“A commotion?”_

“A mutant kid they wanted to turn into glue or some shit. I swear, it's a goddamn witch hunt.” He thumped the back of his head against the wood. “How's Lucky?”

_“He's great. And I'm doing fine, too, thanks for asking.”_

He smiled with the corner of his mouth. “Got any more leads for me?”

_“Try heading north, Clint. Russia, maybe. I'll keep you posted, but that's the best I've got for now.”_

“Alright, thanks.” He took a deep breath. “How's the weather over there?”

_“Sunny and hot. You?”_

He looked out the open doors.

“Rainy. Bleak. Or maybe that's just me.”

He could almost hear Kate smile. _“Take care, Hawkeye.”_

“Thanks, Hawkeye.”

He hung up and got out of the barn, just as Kurt Wagner came back from the river.

“You okay?” Clint asked.

Kurt gave a still shaky nod. “Yes. The drug is wearing off, I think,” he said in his thick German accent, rubbing the crook of his elbow. In the glum daylight, his blue skin and yellow eyes were even more striking. “I should probably go.”

“Can you teleport all the way?”

“Ah – no. I go step by step.”

“But can you cross the ocean?”

He nodded again, more encouragingly. “No problem. I'll take ship.”

“Well, best of luck,” Clint smiled. Had it been anyone else, he might have been worried, but this kid was a carnie and a mutant, which amounted to a PhD in self-care and resourcefulness.

He reached out his hand; Kurt grabbed it with both hands – he only had three fingers on each – and shook it effusively.

“Thank you,” he said in earnest. “Thank you so much.”

“Aw, don't mention it, man.”

Kurt took a step back, then disappeared with a surprising _bamf!_ sound and a thick, grainy smoke, fuchsia and black. Clint watched it fade in the evening air, the dull colors of reality slowly taking their toll, then he walked away.

 

He'd almost reached the poplar trees when he heard that weird sound again and turned round. Kurt Wagner was back, in the exact spot he'd vanished from. “I forgot,” he said, making an effort to make his breathless voice carry. “I can take people with me, too. Do you want to come? To America?”

“No thanks,” Clint called. “I'm looking for someone.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What?
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, don't look at me like that. Of _course_ there's a [sequel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1124678/chapters/2267005). Bruce and Clint still have a long road to go and I'll be there to tell you about it.
> 
> Let's hear it for laurie_ky who is without a doubt the best beta ever!


	23. NEWS & FANART

 

Hi! First of all, news! The sequel can be found right [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1124678/chapters/2267005).

 

Also, I got fanart from an über cool artist named Rudy, whose Tumblr appears to be gone now. (Thanks, webpixie, for showing me how to repost the pics here.) If anyone knows him and can link me to him please let me know in the comments!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I LOVE FANART SO MUCH GUYS AAAAAAAAAAAAH

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] In The Details - Nonymos](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9983867) by [InsufferableInsanity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsufferableInsanity/pseuds/InsufferableInsanity)




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